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blac-ivy · 3 days ago

Text

I want to scream but that might scare the neighbours.

Across the Threshold

one-shot

remmick x fem!reader

summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.

But the night you finally say come in—he breaks.

Now that he’s inside, he’s never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.

wc: 5.4k

a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333

warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

And tonight, for once, you don’t want the morning to come either.

8K notes · View notes

blac-ivy · 7 days ago

Text

You're My B-Side

Rodrick Heffley x Reader

(My GIF)

Summary; After two years of not seeing eachother, Y/n and Rodrick cross paths again. And because of his band's financial problems, it led Y/n to be stuck with Rodrick once again.

Notes; This is post Dog Days for reference. Also, I wrote this instead of bothering with other works just before school started. I'm getting so fuckin' tired of summaries by the way.

Extra Note; The creme on the corner of his mouth OH MY GODS, GUYS.

Warnings; Some foul language is about it.

Word Count; 5,382

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It was a slow day, and unfortunately the recording studio Y/n worked at was far less popular than the other one just a few miles away. Which honestly seemed kinda stupid since this studio was cheaper. By a mile. But to each their own.

Y/n was newly graduated—well, she graduated two years ago, but that meant full time jobs. She was working two jobs just to get by on her rent. But at least she got to relax for this job most of the time.

Y/n had just swept the floors for the third time today, and she was pretty sure that no dust of any sort was on any surface of the studio anymore.

"Leo, how much longer do we have?" Y/n called out.

"Uh.. 5 more hours.." Leo said, sighing.

Leo was her coworker, he was older than her by a couple years, maybe early 20s, but he sure didn't do a whole lot.

"I don't even know what to do anymore, man.. I've already swept this whole place like, three times..." She groaned loudly.

"Let's record something, then. You still know how to play guitar and piano, right? Because we have some extra instruments here in the back."

What? Recording herself playing? She didn't even know if she remembered how to play. But it's not like there's anything else to do.

"Uh, sure. But I'm not sure if I can still play."

Leo and Y/n went into the recording studio and grabbed a guitar from the back.

Leo brought a mic and sat it on a stand, pointing to where the guitar would be.

"What song do you want? What are we thinkin'?" She sat on the chair that was placed in the center of the room.

"Beach Boys."

"Beach Boys? Really?"

"What's wrong with The Beach Boys?" Leo asked, confused.

"Nothing's wrong with The Beach Boys, just didn’t expect you to pick 'em." She shrugged. "What song are you thinkin'?"

"God Only Knows?"

"I knew how to play that one on the piano." Y/n shrugged as she placed the guitar down carefully and walked to sit on the piano bench, adjusting it to her best comfort.

"Uh, shit- I think it's something like this..." Y/n placed her hands on the keys and played the chords and melody. "Do you know how to sing, Leo?" She said awkwardly.

Leo shrugged and shook his head 'no' with a laugh.

She sighed and continued, and just as she was about to open her mouth, Leo could be seen rushing out of the recording booth.

Y/n got up from her seat and rushed into the lobby. It now had three teenage boys who looked like they came here with just 10 dollars in their pockets combined.

"...okay, dude, I would love to have you play, but I can't just take twenty bucks for one hour. Our sessions per hour here are forty and that's honestly as low as you'll get at any studio." Leo explained.

"What's going on?" Y/n asks, standing next to Leo.

"They're trying to pay me twenty for an hour-"

"But we charge forty an hour?"

"I know, that's what I told them."

Y/n looked at them. They looked honestly pathetic. But, these were very clearly teenage boys. She felt just a little pity for them.

She squinted her eyes to take a look at one of the members more closely, recognizing a face she hadn’t seen since she graduated.

"Rodrick Heffley? I knew I recognized that face. I remember when you looked... different. You look cute now." Y/n joked.

The boy shuffled in his spot, nervously laughing and looking at his band mates. "Pfft, what do you mean?"

"Just got embarrassed by a pretty girl." One of the boys whispered to him.

Y/n raised her eyebrow.

"Y/n, I've got a proposition," Y/n looked up at Leo, "how about one of them works here to pay it off. We'll still pay him, but most of it will go to paying recording sessions." She looked back at the boys. "Do any of you have jobs?"

Two of them nod yes while the other shakes his head. No surprise that Rodrick didn't have a job.

It’s not that he was a ‘loser’, but he definitely wasn't the smartest, and was just a little lazy... Okay, not a little, really lazy.

Leo looks back at Y/n and shrugs, looking back at the three boys before pointing at Rodrick. "You, come here."

Rodrick looks at his band mates before walking up to Y/n and Leo. "What?"

"You can record if you get a job here. We're offering you. It pays 10 bucks an hour and we could use another hand around here."

"Uh, no way. Why the hell...-" Rodrick scoffed.

One of the band mates cleared his throat and looked at Rodrick.

Rodrick took a deep breath and sighed. "Fine."

Y/n smiled. "Alright, cool. Come bring your stuff in and we'll help get you all set up."

Y/n and Leo led the three to the recording room so they could put their stuff down and she helped wheel out the stand up piano, mic, and put the bench back in the closet.

Y/n returned to the recording booth where Leo was, sitting in one of the two seats.

"Is this all these guys have? I would've expected more.." You said, looking at the three as they set up.

Well, they weren't really all that focused on setting up. More so, talking to eachother as they looked at her and Leo, though she felt like it was all on her.

"What do you think they're saying?"

"I dunno, probably teenage boy stuff. The kinda stuff you don't even want to hear." Leo shudders.

"Ew..." Y/n shakes her head and laughs.

It took a while for the recording to start. In fact, the recordings didn't start at all. They were... too much.

They bickered and laughed, they weren't taking it seriously. Now Y/n was getting annoyed.

She was bored and annoyed now.

"I'm gonna go say something." Y/n huffs and gets up from her seat.

"Wait, what? They're paying for the hours, it's good that they're here longer, that's on them." Leo protests.

"I'm getting annoyed and I'm still bored now. It's either they start or leave." Y/n leaves the booth and opens the door to the recording room, interrupting the conversation that was currently going on.

"Are you guys going to get recording? You're still paying by the hour, you know that, right?" Y/n asks with a hand on her hip. "You guys are nearing an hour, too."

"Uh- how much is it now?"

"36 bucks is about to become your total. Do you want to record one song quickly or pay for doing absolutely nothing?"

One of the boys sighs and makes the decision for the band. "We'll come back some other day."

"Cool. Me and Leo will help you move your stuff back into your van. Then you'll be on your way." Y/n smiles. "Hey, Heffley, what are you doing later on?"

Rodrick's eyes widen and he looks at his two band mates, a red tint making its way onto his face.

"Uh, well- y'know, nothing really. W-why?" Rodrick cleared his throat and twirled a drumstick in his hand, trying to play it off cool.

Y/n grinned mischievously, "Great! Because we're gonna start with training now."

Well that was disappointing, not at all what Rodrick thought she was going to say.

One of the members snicker while the other laughs out loud. "Oh my god, dude. Bummer!"

"Shut up.."

--------------------------------------

"So, me and Leo are really the only two that work here and our boss just does whatever, he's never even here. But, you gotta know everything, because we do everything," Y/n explained. "We clean, use the soundboard, set up mics, set up equipment, replace any necessary things, and record in the sound booth. Everything is self explanatory, or should be if you're a musician. Do you know how to use a soundboard?" She asked.

Rodrick looks at her lost and confused. "What?"

"Did you listen to a single thing I said?"

"...yeah.."

"Then tell me what it is the job requires."

"Clean, setup, soundboard." Rodrick says questionably.

"Huh.. Good job, Heffley. You're actually paying attention for once." You joke with an amused look on your face.

Rodrick nods his head and scratches the back of his head.

"Let's start then?" Y/n asks with a smile. "So, we have a break room over there and private employee only restrooms. We clean those after we close up every night. There are supplies under the sink, me and Leo usually take turns. We also obviously sweep and mop the whole studio except for the recording booth. That one we just vacuum."

"Why do you need to clean them everyday? Why not like, I dunno, sometimes?"

She looked at Rodrick in disgust. "Because we use them? And it's gross not to?"

"I mean. Yeah, but do you clean your bathroom everyday?"

Y/n stopped for a second, he was kinda right. "Uh, well no, but that's because I'm the only one that uses it." She says. "Wait, you have two brothers and both your parents, why aren't you cleaning yours regularly?"

Rodrick shrugs.

Y/n closes her eyes and sighs. "Let's.. just keep going.." Y/n continues, "Me and Leo also take turns at the desk. We check customers in, and check them out for their hours. You have to calculate it yourself because our system has been down for 7 months, so you better be paying attention in math 'n shit." She explains.

"But what do you guys even do when there's no one?"

"Nothing. I cleaned the floor like, 10 times today and me and Leo were about to record a cover before you guys came in. We do nothing." Y/n says deadpanned.

"Sounds great." Rodrick smiles.

"Just you wait." Y/n rolls her eyes.

Y/n leads Rodrick over to the booth and room.

"Here is the stuff with more detail, so take mental notes. The recording room we have set up already has a stand-up piano, a bench, two chairs, and two mics. One of the mics is at the piano, the other is at the front of the room. We always keep it that way. And now as for the booth, we are extremely careful here. No uncovered drinks, no sticky food, no sauces, anything that will do damage to these are a no-go unless you want to pay for any damage." Y/n says explicitly.

"Wait, what about like, chips and stuff?" Rodrick asks with a sniffle.

"Um, I guess that's chill? As long as you clean up after yourself." Y/n shrugs. "Uh, anyway.. Leo will train you on the soundboard and how to set up everything. I'll put my cell in your phone in case you have any questions, and I'll give you your schedule next time you come in, which is Thursday, so enjoy the last two days of freedom you have to laze about at home because I know you don't do your homework." Y/n sighs as she wraps up everything.

"Leo, the kid's got the gist of everything on my end. You train him Thursday."

Y/n was only older than Rodrick by a year. But she'd graduated from high school early two years ago when Rodrick was still a sophomore. She felt somewhat older than him, though, and it was fun.

"Cool, see you later, guys. I'll close up tonight, Y/n." Leo said, coming out of the break room.

"Thanks, Leo. I'll see you tomorrow." Y/n smiles with a wave, then turns to look at Rodrick. "Do you need a ride home, Heffley?" Y/n asks as she plays with her keys.

"That's, yeah, that's cool if you can." Rodrick shrugs.

Now, unknowingly to her, Rodrick actually had a thing for her when she was still in school with him. A pretty girl in her junior year who was smart but cool, didn't care what others said, and sometimes hung out with him because she wanted to. She treated him and saw him as an actual human being, rather than some loser with sawdust for brains.

She was absolutely mind-blowing to him, and being around her suddenly made him nervous again.

Rodrick got into the passenger side as Y/n sat in front of the steering wheel, starting her car and pulling out of the studio's parking lot.

"Put on your seatbelt," Y/n says, keeping her eyes on the road.

"Y-yeah, dude, of course, my bad." Rodrick says, frantically reaching for the seatbelt.

Y/n turns on the radio and hums along to the song playing. As well as occasionally honking at the idiots on the road.

"So, how's it been going, Heffley? I haven't seen you in two years, and you have a band now." Y/n asks.

"Uh, good, it's been good, I guess. The uh, the band's good, we're doing good. Y'know, playing cool venues, we're like, total rockstars."

"Then why haven't I ever heard of your band? I'm pretty sure I'd be able to remember such a name like 'Löded Diper'." Y/n laughs.

Rodrick smiled.

"Maybe it's because you're just a Melvin now?"

Y/n gasps and puts a hand on her chest dramatically. "I will not take that horrible slander! To me? I think I'm honestly the coolest person out here, in fact, I know it."

"Pssh, you were like a total nerd! Graduating early?"

"Hey, if it weren't for me being such a nerd, then you would've failed your biology, geometry, and history classes. I practically saved your life those two years I was there with you."

"Y'know, I still have those notes. The ones that you gave me before you graduated, that you took in your other classes."

"Really, now? They're only good if the same teachers are there, though." Y/n gave an amused smile. "It's weird, I don't even need to think about anything to remember where your house is. I just remember the turns. It feels almost natural even after not driving down after two years."

Rodrick hummed and turned to look at Y/n. She'd only changed a little. Her often smudged eyeliner was no longer as messy as it used to be; she had a large tattoo on her right arm, a few piercings, and a more defined face, something that only he would really notice.

To be honest she was the type of girl that was perfect in Rodrick's eyes. But he wouldn't ever admit that to Y/n. At least not now.

"What? Are you checking me out?" Y/n raises her brow.

"What? No, no! I was just- just looking outside your window. I saw a cool car." Rodrick quickly looks away, a blush appearing on his face.

Y/n snorts, "Are you sure, Heffley? It's not like I mind."

It wasn't long until they finally made their way onto the street where Rodrick lived. It still looked the same to her, just different toys from the youngest brother, who was now two years older. Was it three or four years old that he would be now? Y/n couldn't recall.

"Here you are. I'll see you at work then?" Y/n smiles as she waves goodbye to Rodrick.

"Yeah, I'll see you. Bye, Y/n." Rodrick clears his throat and gets out of the car.

"Tell your mom and Greg I said hi. Bye, Rodrick." Y/n rolled the window back up and drove off, leaving Rodrick standing in front of his house.

"Rodrick? What are you doing standing out here by yourself? Who was that?" Susan asks, walking to Rodrick.

"Uh, that was- that was Y/n." He said, pointing to her car driving down the street. "She said to tell you hi."

"Y/n? The one you liked?" Susan smiled.

"Mom!"

--------------------------------------

"So, Leo. You think this dumb-dumb will be able to learn?" Y/n laughs as she wraps up a cord.

"I mean, he's a musician, you would only hope he knows how to do at least some of this stuff." Leo sighs, turning on everything in the recording room.

"Yeah but... I dunno he's never been the smartest. I went to school with him and it took ages for me to tutor him."

"Well, maybe he'll want to learn. If he wants to go pro or something, he's going to have to know how to do this stuff, maybe that'll give him a little motivation."

"You might be right, you know. And if he doesn’t get it, just have him do everything else but sound, y'know?" Y/n shrugs.

A knock is heard at the door and her phone chimes.

[Loser: 'Here :/'

"Speak of the devil."

Y/n and Leo made their way to the door and unlocked it, seeing exactly who was expected.

Rodrick's outfit of the day was a band tank top that was slightly cropped, a pair of jeans, only a little tight, and random wristbands and blankets.

"Look at you, all punked up. How cute, look at him, Leo." Y/n teases.

"Give the kid a break, Y/n."

"It's a little fun." Y/n said, turning back to look at Rodrick. "Alright, Leo will show you the ropes and if you suck at it then you're stuck with me." She grins.

"Um.."

"C'mon, I'll save you from her." Leo said, taking Rodrick to the recording booth.

Y/n walked to the desk to set up the sound system, turning the radio on to have some background noise.

She groans as she sits down and takes out her phone. It's probably going to be a long day.

--------------------------------------

"He's hopeless, Y/n." Leo says as he enters the lobby.

"Hmm?"

"The kid's hopeless! Either he's doing it on purpose or he really just can't retain any information." Leo groans as he leans on the desk and covers his face.

Leo was a pretty chill guy, and it took a lot to tick him off, but Rodrick had a habit of pissing off and annoying even the most kind and patient people.

"He's kind of an idiot, but he can retain information, it just takes him a little while, unfortunately." Y/n explains. "I mean, when I was in high school, it took me a whole semester to teach him how to study correctly and do simple geometry."

"He'll only listen to you, I just know it. You go and teach him instead. If I go in there any longer I'll snap at him." Leo says. "Please, Y/n."

Y/n sighed and got up from her seat, putting her phone away in her pocket.

"Fine, but you brought this upon yourself because you were the one that wanted to hire him. Remember that, and well." Y/n said as she walked out of the lobby.

She entered the recording booth to see Rodrick leaning on the wall typing on his phone.

"I don't know how you did it, Rod, but you pissed off Leo." Y/n laughed. "Now I'm the one that has to deal with you. Again."

Rodrick snorted, "You know exactly how I did it."

Y/n sighed. "Yeah, you're right, I don't know why I expected you to not piss someone off, but it shouldn't have been Leo."

"Why?"

"Nothing bad, just that Leo's chill and it'd suck for him not to like you." Y/n shrugs.

Rodrick hums and puts his phone away.

"So, what did you not understand about what Leo was telling you?"

"Everything he said just sounded like Ms. Peterson's teaching. It just made no sense to me." Rodrick shrugged.

Y/n narrowed her eyes and smirked. "Leo is one of the best teachers I've ever had. Are you just trying to get me alone, Rodrick?"

Rodrick's eyes widened and he held his hands up in defence. "No no no! Not at all, dude!"

Y/n chuckled, "I'm only joking. Okay, I should stop goofing and start teaching you something."

Y/n explained carefully as Rodrick nodded his head every so often.

"Holy crap, dude. Leo's right, I guess you do only listen to me." Y/n laughs.

"Yeah, whatever, but I still don't understand. Why are all of these buttons and switches on here when you just need the volume? It's stupid."

Y/n sighed and shook her head. "Well. I guess I really am stuck with you. I give up on this, let's go back to the lobby."

Rodrick followed behind Y/n as she made her way into the lobby.

"Seems like Rodrick's gonna be helping me out, Leo."

Leo perked up and walked towards the two. "Really? I thought he'd listen to you?"

"He did, he just doesn't understand. He's a dumb dumb." Y/n shrugged.

"I'm right here, man.."

"I'm only joking, Rodrick." Y/n smiles, playfully pushing his shoulder.

Rodrick rolled his eyes with a smile as he watched Y/n and Leo talk.

--------------------------------------

It'd been two months since Rodrick's been working at the recording studio. In Y/n's words to Rodrick: "You could leave now, dude. You know that right?"

But Rodrick wanted to stay. Not for the money, not for the experience, but for, and regrettably, Y/n.

He was so incredibly down bad for her when she went to school with him, and now that he's gotten to hang out with her again, even if it's at work, those feelings are starting to surface again.

He was so distracted looking at her during recording sessions, that at some point the whole entire band had to turn their entire setup around just so he would take his damn eyes off of her.

This went for anytime Y/n was around him, unfortunately for him.

Believe it or not, he was actually doing better in school. Well, that was really thanks to Y/n, because just like when they were in school together, she was helping by tutoring him during work hours.

Rodrick twirled his drumstick in his hand and looked up at his ceiling, once again, his head in the clouds thinking about Y/n.

“Rodrick! Greg! Come downstairs, we have a guest!” Sharon shouted from downstairs, startling Rodrick and causing him to drop his drumstick on his face.

Rodrick sighed as he left his room and made his way down the stairs, pushing Greg out of the way on his way down.

“...oh my god, really? How come I didn’t hear about this?” Someone laughed.

Rodrick recognized that laugh. Y/n?

Greg snickered. “Dude, mom’s telling her about last summer.”

Rodrick’s eyes widened and he rushed over to Sharon and Y/n, quickly interrupting the conversation. “Y/n, what are you doing here?”

Y/n smiled as she gave Rodrick a hug. “Hey, Rodrick. I saw your mom at the supermarket with Manny yesterday and she invited me over to dinner. Y’know, I think I would have actually gone to Heather’s birthday party if I knew you would be performing there.”

“Uh, no.. no it's good you didn't come, the party was uh… it was lame…” Rodrick cleared his throat.

“It was actually anything but lame.” Greg said.

Y/n laughed.

Oh god that laugh. Just getting to listen to that laugh was a blessing in Rodrick’s eyes. Everything about you was incredible. It was a blessing from the gods just being in the same room as you.

“Rodrick? Rodrick!” Sharon shouted.

“What?”

“I said come help your brother set the table, Rodrick. The food’s almost ready.”

Rodrick groaned as he followed Greg into the kitchen, grabbing forks and knives from the drawer and taking the paper towel roll off of its stand, setting them all on the table.

Everyone else came into the kitchen and took their seat, Y/n taking her seat next to Rodrick’s regular one.

“So, Y/n. How’s everything been?” Frank asked, sticking his fork into a piece of pot roast.

“Good. I mean, I have my own apartment now, but I have to work two jobs to keep up.” Y/n replied.

“And college? How’s that going?”

Y/n groaned, “Gods, it’s been rough. I’m glad I was able to get a good scholarship and financial aid because paying its cost without it would be even more of a nightmare. But I have to take night classes because of my work schedule. I have a mechanic job from 5-12, and the recording studio from 1-7. So I just take classes real quick from 8-12. It’s a loaded schedule but it keeps me busy and my utilities low.”

“Well, if you ever need help, just know that we're here and more than happy to help.” Susan said, reaching over to grab Y/n's hand.

“Thank you, Susan. I really appreciate that.” Y/n smiled.

The meal went on with some more conversation, mostly with or about Y/n, everyone just wanted to catch up with her, especially Susan after not hearing about her for 2 years.

Soon everyone was finished, and Susan was having Greg and Rodrick help clean up.

You know that sort of feeling you get when you're at someone's place and you're just sitting as they clean up and absolutely insist you don't have to do anything? Well, that's what Y/n was feeling right now. Somewhat guilty?

“Susan, just let me help out, I'm more than happy to do the dishes or something.”

“No, no, it's alright Y/n. You're the guest. You can go in the living room for now and wait for Rodrick if you'd like, though.” Susan said, waving her off.

Y/n mumbled a thank you and made her way into the living room, sitting down on the sofa, watching as Manny played with his toys.

“Rodrick, go clean your room.” Susan told Rodrick. He groaned and dried off his hands before heading up the stairs, coming back down about 5 minutes later.

“Want to come up to my room?” Rodrick asked, clearing his throat.

Y/n smiled. “Sure.” She said, following Rodrick up the stairs.

Rodrick entered and took a seat on his bed, Y/n sat next to him.

“Man, your room hasn't changed since I was last here. How boring.”

“My room is already awesome, that's why there's no reason to change it.”

“Are you sure it's not just because you're lazy?”

“Pfft, lazy? I'm not lazy.”

Y/n raised her eyebrow and turned to look at Rodrick, “Then why has that mess on your cabinet been there since I was last here. 2 years ago.”

Rodrick said something under his breath that Y/n couldn’t quite hear before getting up and cleaning up the spot.

“Y’know, you haven’t changed at all. I mean personality wise, I guess. I like it, it’s nice not having that sort of change after having nothing but change for 2 years straight. Nothing seemed to change here with your family either.” Y/n smiled.

“It's boring is what it is. Can't wait to finally get out of here. Get away from everyone here and finally just have a place to myself.”

Y/n frowned and lied down on Rodrick's bed. “It's only good the first few months. You get lonely after a while. It's boring and sad and stuff. But I'd rather do dishes than have someone else live with me. And you know just how much I hate doing dishes.”

It was quiet as Rodrick picked up his mess, opening cabinets and drawers to put stuff in where it belongs.

“I'm happy. I really missed this. I missed you.” Y/n inhaled through her nose, her eyes closed. “Rodrick, can I tell you something?”

“Yeah, of course, man.” Rodrick said, turning his attention to Y/n's figure on the bed.

‘Fuck, she's gorgeous..’

The bed dipped slightly as Rodrick took a seat next to where Y/n laid.

“You remember Scott? That popular jock that practically had sawdust for brains?”

“How could I not? The asshole tormented me all of freshman year.” Rodrick rolled his eyes with a scoff.

Y/n grabbed his hand and pulled him down so he could lie next to her. “Remember that period of time, the last few weeks before, when everyone was just looking at us real weird and stuff?” She cleared her throat. “Well, he asked me out late August, right after the first game of the football season. And you know what I said?”

“What?” Rodrick furrowed his brows and turned on his side to look at Y/n.

“I told him no. When he asked me why, well.. I may have told him I had been dating you.” She sighed, “originally it was just to get him away from me, and it worked. But the more that I thought about it, the more I started realizing that I did actually like you. After graduating and everything, it kinda went away, but it did linger for quite a while, but… after you started working with me, after not seeing you for two years… I…” Y/n took a deep breath, shutting her eyes tight before opening them again to look into Rodrick's eyes, “What I'm trying to say is; I like you. All over again. I guess my feelings for you never actually left.”

Rodrick stayed silent, an unreadable expression on his face as he looked at Y/n. The room itself stayed silent, the only noise audible was the noise of Greg playing Twisted Wizards in his bedroom.

Y/n grew anxious, not knowing what Rodrick was going to say or do.

“C'mon, Rod. Don't look at me like that, please.” She bit the inside of her lip.

“You're so pretty…” Rodrick whispered.

“What?”

Rodrick said nothing, only propping himself up on his elbow and leaning down and placing a kiss on Y/n's lips.

She closed her eyes and her hands found their way to Rodrick's hair, entangling themselves into his unruly locks, only making it messier each time she gently pulled on it.

Rodrick's lips were chapped, but slowly becoming smoother as Y/n’s chapstick transferred onto his lips.

The two finally parted. It was gentle, yet full of passion. The yearning over years finally relieved just with this one kiss.

“You're horrible at kissing, Heffley. Pink is definitely your colour, though.” Y/n giggled.

“What? What do you mean?”

“My chapstick is practically smeared all over your lips, Rodrick.”

Rodrick flushed as he wiped his bottom lip with his thumb and looked at the light glossy fuchsia on his thumb.

“Can I tell you something now?” Rodrick asked.

“Go right ahead, darlin’.” Y/n joked.

“I totally thought that Leo was your boyfriend.” He admitted.

Y/n's eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “What! Leo? You really thought that me and Leo were a thing?” Y/n laughed.

“You can't blame me!”

“Oh I totally can. I'm gonna tell him Monday. I have to tell him. Oh my gosh that's hilarious!”

Rodrick rolled his eyes before bringing his hand up to cup Y/n’s cheek, pulling her face so his lips could meet hers once more.

“I think you totally forgot that I just said you were a horrible kisser.” Y/n said after Rodrick pulled away. “Like, absolutely pathetic at it.”

“I don't suck. You just can't appreciate me.”

“Don't worry. I'll give you plenty of practice if you let me stay the night.” Y/n teased, running her fingers through his hair.

“Fuck, I love you.” Rodrick smiled.

“Who wouldn't?”

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blac-ivy · 10 days ago

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😌 I'll be waiting

One thing golden era Wattpad writers had going for them was that they knew the importance of a buildup. I'm of the opinion that the sexual tension is WAY more satisfying to read than the actual sex and quite frankly there is a serious lack of non smutty writing.

Like I really miss reading fics/ x readers that start from scratch. Meeting the characters, initial reactions getting to know them, the tension the jealousy the TENSION the freaking tension.

Looking and looking away when they get spotted, touches that feel like they linger but perhaps they didn't and they're both so hot for each other that they think it's wishful thinking. And I don't mean just sweet sunshine romances, darker works can have a buildup too but it seems like so much is just about getting to the smut instead of the psychological aspect.

Bring back the build up!!!!!!!

13K notes · View notes

blac-ivy · 1 month ago

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Hand

Change a single letter and change the word game

I want to play a game with you all.

You have to make a new word by changing only one letter of the last word.

Dirt

148K notes · View notes

blac-ivy · 1 month ago

Text

AT THE SAME TIME 🤠

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blac-ivy · 1 month ago

Text

━━━━ ✧˖°‎ 𝐆𝐎 𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐑𝐘, 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

‎ ‎ 𝐃𝐀𝐃'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒! 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 & 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋: 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

tags: daddy issues, implied death (not of a major character), age difference, mentions of sex and sexual situations, angst, hurt/comfort

word count: 6.7k

slight alternate universe. warning: this isn’t a happy fic, but the rest of the series is. use discretion.

“You don’t think he’d,” he doesn’t finish. For a strong, tough man like your dad, who’s always a little too confident, Rick is surprised to hear the nervousness in his voice. He knows what your father is trying to say. Does Rick think Daryl would touch you? Rick doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to think about it, but not for the same reasons your father is thinking. God, not for those reasons at all. Someone needs to hit him in the head to knock some sense into him, and he knows it. Thoughts of you have him all screwed up. “No, of course not. Daryl - he’s a good guy,” Rick assures, with so much emphasis on the last part that it almost sounds like he’s trying to clear his own conscience. Your father nods, pleased with that answer. He lightly taps the door of the barn twice before walking in. But not before he says, “Good,” with a little nod, like he’s thinking to himself. “Because I’d fuckin’ kill him.”

“You still mad?” Daryl asks you, falling into step right beside you. He has to slow his own stride down to match your pace.

You’re pissed. Sulking. In a bad, pouty mood - all because your father lectured you this morning in front of the entire group. Daryl gets it, how that must be embarrassing, but this group has seen each other in far more humiliating situations than that. He thought you’d be over it by now.

You let out a sigh, so dramatic that Daryl almost laughs. But he knows better - doesn’t want you to be mad at him too, although he doesn’t really understand why. Why does he care if you’re mad at him? He tries to pay the question no mind, and he tries to ignore that inner feeling he has, the one that points to why he cares about what you think about him so much.

It's too much to ponder when he hasn’t eaten in almost two days.

Instead of bugging you about answering, he grabs your bag that’s pretty much empty and carries it for you. You’re the only person in the group with an empty looking bag - he saw you the other day, shoving all your heavy stuff in your father’s backpack, and when he told you to cut that shit out, you asked Daryl to carry the rest.

Now his bag feels like he’s carrying fucking rocks around, but. He just wants to help you out. You’d been dragging your bag on the ground the last few days, anyway. Daryl was sick of watching it.

“My dad’s just such a,” you search for the word, shaking your head when you give up and realize that nothing intelligent or mature is about to leave your mouth.

“He’s such a hardass. Such an asshole. He treats me like a fucking kid, and I’m so sick of it.” Truly, a statement that comes out of a kid’s mouth. You’re pretty positive you’ve said the exact same thing about your father every single day you’ve been around him since the first time you put on a training bra.

When you were a kid, you were so close to him. Daddy’s girl. Your parents split up when you were young, but you always loved your father so much. He was fun, calm, caring. He understood you, and he always took you to do fun activities. Was always cozy, and warm, would spend hours playing board games with you, watching movies with you, would tell you history stories about different wars and ancient civilizations and explain to you what life used to be like.

As a kid, you loved that so much. Your father was a history nerd, a military guy for most of his life, and those storytimes with him are some of the best memories you have together. He loved to be outdoors, and hiking and camping and whatever outdoor activities he could come up with were such big parts of your time together.

That all changed when you started to grow up. Your father is traditional - and when you started to look like a woman instead of like a kid, his entire attitude towards you changed.

Not in a weird way, just - it was like he didn’t know what to do with you anymore. Like he couldn't connect with you, and even worse - like he didn't even want to try.

The first time you wore a full face of makeup around him, he looked disappointed. Cancelled the camping trip he was supposed to be taking you on, because he said it was obvious you weren’t into things like that anymore. Not even in a cruel way, it was like he really believed that. No matter how many times you tried to tell him that you could enjoy both things.

You loved being his outdoor adventure buddy - even with pink nails and shimmery eyeshadow. It didn’t have to be one or the other. But it caused so much tension in your relationship, the only way you guys even got semi-close again was because of fucking walkers. You quite literally didn’t have anyone else when the world went to shit, and your father always fulfilled the duties he promised he’d do. Like take care of you. Keep you safe, keep you alive.

He’s just such a dick. And the worst part is, he doesn’t even think he’s being mean.

Daryl takes a minute to respond. “Nobody likes their old man, you know that? Get over it already. ‘M sure yer just fuckin’ hungry and,” you stop walking altogether and give him the meanest look you can muster. Daryl’s smart, and he knows you’re about to snap, or cry, so he holds up a hand in mock surrender.

Up ahead, leading the group, Rick turns around. “Everything okay?” He asks, voice too loud for the state the group is in. If a herd of walkers somehow approached, you doubt anyone would be able to fight them off.

Daryl just waves him off and Rick turns back around and keeps walking. To where, you don’t fucking know. You’ve just been aimlessly walking for days now. Your father is right next to him, best fucking friends, you think, annoyed at the thought.

You’re mad at your dad, but his lack of concern still hurts.

He doesn’t even turn around.

────

“Didn’t know they were such good friends,” your father says, taking a seat next to Rick. The group found an old barn with a roof that looks like it’s about to cave in, but it’s big enough to shelter everyone and there’s fresh water nearby.

This is the group’s second night at this location, and everyone is finally settling in. Most of the group is just happy to have some water to clean themselves off, to refill their bottles, to lay on something that isn’t the hard dirt ground.

Your father is too big to be sitting against the barn like Rick is, but Rick’s happy for the company. He really enjoys talking to your dad, respects him greatly, and he considers him one of his right-hand men, up there with Daryl.

When the fuck did he become a leader like this? It hurts Rick’s mind to even think about it. He sighs, but follows your father’s line of vision to the field in front of the barn.

Rick didn’t notice it before, but you’re walking with Daryl towards the barn, probably coming from the water source. It’s hard to see you clearly because it’s dark as hell, but Rick can make out the sound of you giggling, and the sound of Daryl telling you to shut up already. But it’s fond, and Rick can tell - because you keep laughing, and Daryl tells you to knock it off, and shit -

Why does Rick feel so tense about you getting close to Daryl?

He clears his throat, attempts a nonchalant shrug.

“You know your girl,” he tells your father, as if you giggle and go on night outings alone with anyone else in the group. “She’s friends with everyone.”

Your dad doesn’t say anything for a moment, but Rick knows him well enough to know what he’s thinking about. Recalls the way your father had to pull you aside the other day to tell you to look around before you change your clothes when someone else spotted Eugene trying to peep on you through the trees.

He thinks about the one of the first nights after you both joined his group, when you got a little too drunk back when things like food and alcohol were still plentiful, and told some wild stories around the campfire.

He remembers that you were charming as ever, won everyone over, but when you’re drunk you’re pretty flirty, and Rick could hear your father warning you to be careful at your tent later on. He told you to watch it, and leave that grown man alone. Rick could only assume he was referring to Abraham, the man sitting next to you that night, but he never thought too much about it except -

That’s a lie. Rick thinks about it all the time. Honestly, Rick thinks about you all the time.

He doesn’t know how your father does it. By that he means: how your father deals with you.

You’re a beautiful woman. Smart, stubborn - you act a lot like your father. Rick admires your dad so much, and he admires you too. It’s not easy to survive in this world, but beyond just surviving, you have qualities nobody else in the group possesses. You have traits that Rick didn’t even know still existed.

You’re optimistic, most of the time. You still laugh, you still smile, and above all, you have hope. Rick knows you do, even when you drag your feet and cry about the heat and make a big fuss about eating frog legs. You get moody, sure, but who doesn’t in this kind of environment? Living this kind of life?

Rick admires that you don’t try to be something you’re not. You’re not stoic, you’re not cold, and you’re not tough in the ways that everyone else is. You’re tough in your own way, and the other day Rick saw you making a wish on what you thought was a shooting star, and he doesn’t know if it was, but the fact that you even made a wish. Closed your eyes and hoped - it was beautiful. You’re beautiful.

And Rick can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t know how your father deals with you, because you’re both so different beyond the few qualities that you share. He’s cynical, and Rick understands that. He’s also hard on you, and Rick likes your father, but sometimes he thinks it’s pretty shitty that he gets on you about things you can’t really control.

Ain’t a fashion show, he’ll say, if you stop walking for even a few seconds to get your hair out of your face or to apply some chapstick. Ladies don’t curse, c’mon, remember what your mother taught you, he’ll say, if you even say the word damn, or god forbid, anything worse. When you cry, he’ll tell you to toughen up, when you giggle, he’ll ask you what’s so funny, in a tone that says laughing is off limits in a world like this.

He means well, he really does, Rick knows he does - he thinks he’s doing what’s right for you. It’s just -

Fuck, what does Rick know? Maybe he is doing what’s right. Rick just hates to see your expression whenever your father tells you off, hates the way you lose your little spark for the following days afterward.

“I just worry about her,” your dad says, shaking his head. Rick wonders why, because you seem like you have a pretty good head on your shoulders, but he doesn’t have to wait long to hear an explanation.

“No life experience. Will never get to live, not fully. Spoiled her whole life, sheltered. Thought I was doing the right thing by keeping her safe, by giving her rules. She went to college for a little bit, but then this shit happened and,” he sighs, leans his head against the barn. “She’s a smart girl. Real smart. It’s a damn shame this happened, she’ll never get to live a normal life.”

He doesn’t have to say it outloud for Rick to know that your father feels guilty. Guilty, that this is the situation you’re in, as if he had any part in it. Nobody could’ve predicted that the world would come to this.

He’s a damn good dad, and Rick wants to tell him that, but then you’re standing right in front of the both of them with Daryl, although he stands a little bit behind you.

“Ought to be getting to bed, don’t you think?” Rick finds himself saying, looking up at you from his spot on the ground. You’re wearing shorts, and he’s not your father, but he thinks that if he had a daughter, he’d tell her to put on something a little less…short.

Then again, there’s not a lot of clothes to pick from. Rick did see you cutting some clothes with Rosita a few weeks back, and he remembers your father just shaking his head at you. “Focused on the wrong shit,” he murmured, and Rick thought it was funny.

Cute, you trying to make things more…you. He tries to push the thoughts away about how hot he found those little crop tops you made yourself, the way you tied the cut pieces into a little knot, resting on the small of your waist, the shorts that you knew were too short because you kept telling everyone about your cutting error before they could comment on it - the way the material dug into the soft, plush part of your thighs. The -

Fucking hell, Rick needs to be shot in the head. He’s thinking about how sexy his friend’s daughter is, right fucking next to him. He must be staring, because Daryl snorts and squeezes your shoulder on his way into the barn, telling you and your father goodnight while Rick just stares.

“What were you doing out by the water this late? You were alone with Daryl?” Your father asks, and he doesn’t sound angry, he just sounds kind of accusatory. Rick tells himself that he doesn’t want to hear the little spat you’re about to get into, because it will be a spat, he knows you too well, but the truth is that he actually does want to know why you were alone with Daryl this late.

It’s no secret that you like Daryl. You’re friendly with everyone in the group, even the men, but with Daryl it’s different. He pretends like he’s annoyed by you, like your constant whining and talking and the arguing with your dad pisses him off, but he’s always the first to come to your side. To help you, sometimes before you even ask for help.

You follow him around like a lost puppy, call him your bestie, whatever that means. Daryl always just replies, “We ain’t…whatever that is,” which makes your dad laugh, and then you pout, but even though Daryl denies being fond of you, Rick knows he really likes you. In what way, he’s not sure.

But you’re wearing his vest with the wings on the back right now.

You kick a little rock towards your father, and Rick wonders if you did it on purpose. “Needed to wash my shoe off. I stepped in mud, and since there’s no shoe stores around here, I had to clean them. Daryl offered to come with me, so I didn’t have to go alone, and then we saw fireflies, only Daryl says they weren’t fireflies, but,” and you could go on and on, Rick can tell.

You’re happy. Excited. You genuinely had a good time with Daryl, and Rick catches himself almost smiling. Until your dad interrupts.

“Ask me to come with you next time. You need to leave Daryl alone. You’re always buggin’ him,” he says, standing up. You just glare at him, and then at Rick, like he did something. He hates that you might think badly of him, even for a second. You stomp into the barn, and if there was a proper door, Rick bets that you would’ve slammed it.

Your dad is quiet for a minute, before heading to the door of the barn himself.

Does Rick think Daryl would touch you?

Rick doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to think about it, but not for the same reasons your father is thinking. God, not for those reasons at all. Someone needs to hit him in the head to knock some sense into him, and he knows it. Thoughts of you have him all screwed up.

“No, of course not. Daryl - he’s a good guy,” Rick assures, with so much emphasis on the last part that it almost sounds like he’s trying to clear his own conscience.

Your father nods, pleased with that answer. He lightly taps the door of the barn twice before walking in.

But not before he says, “Good,” with a little nod, like he’s thinking to himself. “Because I’d fuckin’ kill him.”

────

It’s hot out today.

It’s been hot, but today it’s so warm, you feel like you need to rip off your clothes and -

Okay, fine, you can admit that it just might feel hotter than normal because Rick took his fucking shirt off earlier when he was washing it in the stream. And, ever since then, you’ve felt the need to rip your clothes off, for reasons that go beyond the sweat on your skin.

Rick is just so, so - sexy. Everything about him. Ever since you met him, you’d been enthralled with him. You honestly never found older men sexy, back when life was normal, but your type has changed since this became your new reality.

There’s no men around that are your age. Anywhere. And, if by some chance you somehow found one, the chances of that man being hot, or sexy, or smart, or anything you’d be interested in is just so unrealistic.

Maybe living like this, in survival mode, has changed what you think is hot. You used to find skinny guys, tall and geeky, with piercings and tattoos hot. You hardly have any experience with men, so your type is just a loose kind of description of the men you’ve fooled around with.

But Rick knocks your socks off. Silly to say, but that’s the only way you know how to describe it. He’s so smart, and he’s in charge, and he has the prettiest eyes and the sexiest little smirk, and his hands are rough and his cockiness is annoying as hell, but every line on his face, every grey hair you see on his head - it just does things to you, okay? All day long you think about Rick, Rick, Rick.

Your crush on him is insane. So what, maybe you only like Rick so much because he’s the only eligible bachelor around.

Except: He’s not. Daryl Dixon is right up there with him, and if you had to choose which one you like more, well -

You wouldn’t be able to. Daryl is rougher, but Rick is more intense, if that makes sense. Rick is classically handsome, but Daryl gives that bad boy vibe. Rick doesn’t put up with your shit, but Daryl does, and you kind of like -

You stop yourself. You’re sitting by the water with the rest of the group, pretending to wash your extra shirt but you’re really just watching Daryl and Rick. They’re across the stream from you, talking to Carol and Glenn. You find a tiny flower by the water, and you pick it up while your extra shirt soaks, picking the petals and saying Rick and Daryl’s names in your head.

Rick, pick, Daryl, pick, Rick, Daryl, pick, pick -

Until your name snaps you out of your thoughts. It’s Rick, calling you and motioning for you to go over to his side of the stream, where a few other members of the group are. He has a shirt on now (worst news of the day), and he’s got a piece of fruit in each hand, one that he’s already taken a bite out of.

Where he found fruit, you don’t know, but you really don’t care what he’s holding. The fact that he’s motioning for you to come over is all you care about.

You almost trip over a log as you walk over to him, and when you stand beside him, he smiles at you and hands you a peach. You grin back. Peaches are your favorite.

“Who’d you have to kill for this?” You ask, and Rick and Daryl and Carol and Glenn all laugh, but you’re serious. A fresh piece of fruit? In this world? Yeah, right. It must’ve come with some murder.

In any case, you bite into the fruit and taste the sweetness almost immediately. Carol and Glenn throw their peach pits on the ground and walk off, but Rick and Daryl stay, just watching you. You can feel their gaze as you take a seat on the grassy ground, and then Rick and Daryl follow suit, Rick next to you and Daryl on the other side of you, legs stretched out in front of them. Yours are crossed.

“Fuck you moanin’ for?” Daryl asks, and Rick lets out a little laugh, but you have no shame. The peach tastes really good, and now that you think about it, you can’t remember the last time you had anything sweet.

“Just happy to have fruit,” you answer, and you take a break from eating to look at both men, one on either side of you. Rick’s lips are covered in the juice of the peach, all wet and shiny, and you never payed this much attention to his mouth before but. Wow. You think you’d like to kiss him, so you quickly turn your head to Daryl, right about the time Rick finishes his peach and tosses the pit away.

Daryl’s not even eating his anymore, but you can smell the fruit on him. His tongue licks over his bottom lip, and you just - ugh. You look him over, wonder if the juice spilled on his neck, or his clothes, what it would taste like if you licked his salty skin after making him all sticky, but the thought makes you so hot that you have to turn away.

Daryl walks off while you finsh your peach, mumbles something like how the fuck’s it gettin’ hotter?, and you wonder the same thing, think it has something to do with both of the men on either side of you.

Rick stays sitting with you. Leans his back against the log behind you both, keeps his eyes on you. Your father is on watch with Sasha, so for right now, around this water, everything is okay. Safe.

“You’re makin’ a mess,” Rick comments, and the way he looks at you, the expression on his face - you don’t know how to explain it, but you feel warm. From more than just the sun and his pure hotness. It’s like he can see something in you, something he likes, but you could just be imagaining it because you’ve never had a crush this big on someone, and then -

And then Rick is grabbing your chin gently. He leans closer, and you can’t believe it’s happening. You’ve imagined kissing Rick so many times, the way his lips would feel, the way his tongue would feel against yours, the heat of his body inching closer to yours. You just never imagined he would kiss you in front of the group, but you’re not complaining.

You lean in, eyes closed, but -

Rick doesn’t kiss you.

He just wipes the peach juice from your chin with his thumb.

You can’t even fake the disappointed look on your face, but he’s still this close, and it’s now or never. At least, that’s what you think before you make a bold move. You know you’ll be kicking yourself over this later, because you know you’re probably about to embarrass yourself, but you have to try.

There’s no harm in it, anyway. Rick just thinks you’re flirty. It’s no big deal.

You press a kiss to his thumb, the one that’s by your lips, and you really hope your father is keeping watch far away from the stream, because you dart your tongue out and lick the pad of Rick’s finger.

“Thanks for cleaning me up,” you say, voice soft. You blink up at him, know enough about men to know that look always gets them flustered, and Rick swallows hard. He nods, always polite, and then pulls away from you and walks off.

You don’t feel embarrassed, because you see him turn around to look at you. He almost trips over a huge fucking rock, and you giggle, but it feels good.

You got Rick Grimes flustered - and the best part?

He turned around to look at you.

────

You’re sitting by the fire, pretending to focus on sharpening your knife, but your eyes keep flicking toward where Daryl and Rick are talking. They’re far enough away to where you can’t hear them and they can’t hear you, but you want to hear them. You want to be a part of whatever conversation they’re having, not because you think it’s interesting, in fact, it rarely is - you just want to be around them.

So bad. Not being close to Rick or Daryl genuinely feels like you’re missing a limb these days, and you know that’s pathetic but you can’t help it. It’s just the way you feel.

Rick is always busy, and Daryl is just as busy as him most days. They don’t have time to wallow in the misery that is the group’s living conditions, and they don’t have time for fun. They just keep going, and you’re kind of jealous of that. Most days, you just wait around for orders, and you don’t want to make the decisions but you also don’t like sitting around. It makes you scared, depressed sometimes, so you try to keep busy by following Daryl and Rick around whenever they let you.

It’s better to be next to one of them than to be partnered with your father in any capacity. Things between you two aren’t good, and you don’t know how to make it better. You don’t know what to do to make him see that he’s being too hard on you.

Everything you do is a problem for him. Everything you say, in his words, reflects badly on him. You can’t relax when he’s around, and you don’t even want to. You don’t want to be around him at all, honestly, but you’ve got no choice.

“Don’t even think about it,” your dad says, and his voice shocks you so much, coming out of nowhere like that, that you almost cut your finger on the knife. You practically gasp. He takes a seat next to you and takes the knife from you to free up your hands, starts sharpening it, but you know it’s not to be nice.

It’s to prove how much better at it he is than you. As if you care. You shouldn’t even have to know how to sharpen a knife, and even though women don’t get the luxury of being girly these days, or even soft, you still think that your father should’ve offered to sharpen the knife for you in the first place. Daryl would’ve done it for you had he seen the way you were handling that thing.

“What are you going on about now?” You ask rudely, crossing your arms. Your dad shakes his head like he always does when he’s talking to you, like you’re so ridiculous he can’t even form a proper reply.

You keep pressing. “Don’t think about what, dad?” It doesn’t even occur to you that he noticed you looking at Daryl and Rick. The crush you have on those men - you’re so alone in it that you get stuck in your head sometimes. Sad as it is to say, looking for those little moments of flirt or fun with Rick and Daryl has made life a little easier. Beyond just a romantic crush, those men represent something more to you -

Not hope exactly, just. The little spark that keeps you moving.

“Watch your fuckin’ tone,” your dad warns, handing you back the knife. It’s so sharp, you almost jump from the handoff and the tone of his voice. He’s mad. “You know what. Or should I say, who.”

You get so embarrassed that you feel yourself cringe. You hope that anyone else who might be around didn’t hear him say that, because if everyone knew about the crush you have on Rick and Daryl, you’d be fucking mortified.

Your dad laughs, but it’s a mean laugh. You want to defend yourself, but deep down, you long for the time in your life when you didn’t even know what his mean laugh sounded like.

“Cut the crap, kid. Everyone can see it. Starin’ at ‘em, following them around. You need to let up. Give ‘em some space. Rick’s got enough on his plate as is, and Daryl is just,” your dad doesn’t even get to finish what he’s saying, because you start crying.

Big, ugly tears start spilling from your eyes. It’s not just this conversation that’s making you so upset. It’s everything.

It’s the fact that you’ve never had a proper boyfriend. It’s the fact that your skin itches, that conditioner is no longer a thing, that you’ll never get your nails done again, that you’ll never hug your mother or your best friend again, that you’ll never have a fucking iced latte every again, that you’ll never sleep on a bed with a real mattress another day in your miserable fucking life.

It's the fact that you've had a headache and a fever for the last week, which is why you've been so fucking hot, and there's no medication to make it easier.

It’s the fact that you’ll never watch your favorite movie, listen to your favorite song, fall in love, start a family, learn to fucking crochet - god, you could go on all day.

Your life is fucking over, and the one (well, two) thing keeping you from bashing your own head in with a rock is this little fantasy crush you have. You’re not hurting anyone, and honestly, maybe you might be making life better for Rick and Daryl. Maybe they also want a little fun, because unlike you, dad, some people want to still smile.

It’s the fact that your own father thinks so low of you, he couldn’t possibly see how anyone would like you or think of you as something beyond a burden.

But the worst thing? The worst thing, is the fact that you’ll die before seeing your father be proud of you.

You used to imagine graduating from college, starting a family, winning a prize, just - anything, to make him proud. To show him that the good in you was just like him, but now that will never happen. You’ll probably die before him, because you’re not cut out for this life and everyone knows it, and you feel sick that you’re starting to think that maybe good never existed in your father at all. Maybe none of this matters. Maybe -

You’re so hysterical that you can feel the eyes of the rest of the group on you. You wish you could tell your dad everything you feel, but instead, as he watches you, frozen, you just say one thing before scurrying off.

“I’m still the girl you took camping, dad. I still want to hear your stories. I love you. I’m still your daughter.” You want to say more, but you run off to the barn, grab your sleeping bag and literally cover yourself with it. It’s so disgustingly hot inside the barn, let alone under the blanket, but you don’t care.

You hope you suffocate.

────

A few minutes go by. Then a few more. You didn’t run away for attention, but you’re a little surprised and hurt that nobody even bothers to check on you. You’re about to cry even more, when the sleeping bag is lifted off of your head.

You think it’s going to be your dad, but it’s not. It’s Rick, dressed in his newly washed white t-shirt, hands on his hips after he drops the sleeping bag in front of you. He looks scruffy, but clean and devastatingly handsome, and the look he wears of pure compassion makes you almost burst into tears again.

He was probably such a good cop. You bet old ladies loved him. You bet he helped them cross the street.

“You alright, honey?” He asks, and you’re so sad that the petname doesn’t even cheer you up. You just shrug sadly, like you’ve given up, and, well - you have.

Rick sighs and moves to sit next to you, making old man noises as he does. Hard to bend down at my age, he said once, to which you replied, Must suck to be old, and he laughed. You wish you could make a joke about it right now, to lighten the mood, but you don’t have it in you to joke or say anything mean to Rick, even just teasing, because the fact that he came to check on you means everything.

More than he’ll ever know.

You decide to be honest. Pretending to be okay after crying like that in front of everyone will obviously seem like bullshit, and anyway, Rick has always been a safe place for you. You’ve talked to him one and one so many times, about all kinds of things. You know each other pretty well at this point, having starved and killed and lived in some of the worst circumstances imaginable together. Trauma bonded, maybe, but Rick means a lot to you.

The thought that you might mean a lot to him, for the simple reason that he checked up on you and nobody else did, makes you feel fuzzy inside. A little less sad, but not by much. You bite your lip before the truth comes out.

“Just don’t see the point anymore,” you admit to him, refusing to meet his eyes. “It’s like, you try so hard to keep us going. Everyone does. We keep going, but…for what? This is all there is. It’s not like there’s some city without walkers somewhere, or someone that’s going to come to our rescue. I’m just tired, Rick. I know I do the least out of everyone here, but,” Rick stops your talking by placing a hand on your thigh. You don’t know if he meant for you to stop talking, but the warm feeling of his skin on yours stops you in your tracks.

“Hey. You do plenty. I get what you’re sayin’, but there’s definitely something more out there. We just have to keep going. Trust me when I say this,” a pause, until you finally look at him and meet his eyes. He looks so earnest that you start to believe him.

“You’re beautiful. You’re young. There’s more out there. I promise you. Even if it’s just a warm bed, or a cold Coke, or another shooting star. There will be other people. You just gotta…hold out a little longer. You’re smart, you’re capable. I’ve seen the skills you have,” your heart breaks because you know that you learned all those skills from your father, and he doesn’t even notice.

But Rick does.

Everything Rick is saying means something to you. Beneath his stoic, hardass, we live like we’re going to war everyday attitude, is a man that’s just as hopeful as you. It’s enough to cheer you up, just a little bit. Makes a thought in the back of your mind start sparkling too, because maybe you and Rick have more in common than you thought. Maybe there’s something to be said, for two people with the same amount of optimism.

But before you get ahead of yourself, before you let that fantasy wash over you, you realize what you must look like. Face all puffy from crying, hair probably greasy since it’s not like you can take a proper shower. There’s a stain on your shirt and you feel sticky if you think about it too long. What if you have something in your teeth, and what if you smell?

The insecurity is too much. You’re too vulnerable right now, and so without thinking, you say the most immature thing possible in response to Rick, and you wish you didn’t. You just feel even more insecure.

“I’m beautiful. Yeah, well, doesn’t matter if that’s true. What good is beauty if I can’t use it? Just goes to waste,” your tone is clipped, and you pick at a piece of loose thread on the bottom of your shirt, hating that Rick is sitting here, being kind, and you go back to making it about yourself.

Maybe your father is right about you. Maybe you’re just - bad. You hate it - that thought, this life, yourself.

But only for a moment, because what Rick says next kickstarts your frozen heart. It was only frozen for a moment, anyway.

“Your beauty is not wasted,” he says, with a matter-of-fact tone. Like he’s sure it isn’t, and how could he be sure of that, unless…?

Unless he’s the one appreciating it. You realize what he’s saying, that he thinks you’re beautiful, and for a second everything feels right in the world.

Until your father enters the barn.

Rick tenses, as do you, but just because Rick made you feel better doesn’t mean you want to see your father. You still feel shitty - health wise and emotionally, so you dismiss him as quickly as you can.

“Go away, dad,” you tell him, shaking your head like you’re disgusted at his presence. The way he does to you.

“Sweetheart, I,” but you don’t want to hear it. You love your dad, and you want his love more than anything in this world, but you’re starting to realize that his comfort is not something you can rely on.

Maybe you can look for comfort and love from other people, people who appreciate you, people who value you, people who care enough about you to check on you. To look back at you.

Your dad isn’t the same man he used to be. He’s not the same guy that told you those stories while you sat on his lap, who tucked you into bed. Who took you on outdoor adventures and sat on the ground to play trains with you.

He’s not the man you go to for comfort, and he’s not the man you go to when you have good news. Your father is not the man he was when you were a child, and even though he used to be, even though he thinks he’s doing the right thing - he’s not.

But that doesn’t mean you have to change who you are.

You ignore your dad, and Rick awkwardly clears his throat and goes to stand, but you grab his hand to pull him back down. If your father notices, he says nothing.

Silence, until he gets the hint.

“I think I’ll go with Abraham and Daryl down the road. Think we spotted a pharmacy, could see if there’s anything to help your fever,” he trails off at the end, as if that’s going to make you jump up and hug him or something. You don’t, but it doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate it. Only took a fucking week.

You just stare at him, and Rick tells him thank you, and your father nods like he appreciates the respect Rick is offering him. Probably is glad that he’s not the one who has to comfort you.

He’s one foot out the door when he turns to you and struggles to get something out. But he does, and you’ll never forget the look on his face when he says it. You’ll never forget that you did nothing, didn’t even say it back, when he told you he loved you.

I love you. I’m tryin’.

You ignored him.

When he’s dead, you’ll regret this moment. That you didn’t say it back. That you didn’t see your father for the flawed human that he was, that you didn’t appreciate his effort, or the way he did love you. You just don’t know it now.

You can’t even possibly anticipate how your life is going to change when he walks out that door.

But for now, because this moment is all you know, Rick wraps his arm around your shoulders, and you lean against him. He’s strong and warm, kind of like your dad, and you sniffle and look up at him.

“Rick,” you say tentatively, fisting the material of his shirt. “Can you tell me a story?”

‎ dad’s best friends! rick + daryl masterlist

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blac-ivy · 1 month ago

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Fellow fic lovers - I am desperate. Please help my save my ESA, Scooby:

https://gofund.me/128d1af4

I will literally write you whatever fic you want, any pairing. I’m serious, I’ll even get into a new show/movie/book. I’m begging 🥺

If you do donate, screenshot your donation and message me! I’m so serious, I will write whatever.

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

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So I already have an oc for Kai (@going-with-the-floe) but I'm thinking of starting another rp blog.

Tagging my moots so it doesn't die (if you follow Kai and I follow you but you don't follow my main I still consider you a moot): @wiener-soldier @sarahowritesostucky @theshadowedassassin @mischief-from-frost @your-fav-russian-assassin @watermeezer @tony-stark-official @loki-licious-945ad @lowkeyprinceloki @rylana404 @notmsmarvell @osi-inn @nathiesblog @muzzled-white-wolf @the1-and-only-peggycarter @proud-owner-0f-americas-ass @cheeseburgergirlie @johnwalkerrrrr @officalpotato @avastarr-official @crashingout2point0 @m0n5t3r-3n3rg7 @freshcollectiion @itzzkaylaaa @lizziewiththeapples @amayleearlet @blac-ivy @princess-luka @sleep-deprivation-is-fun @bob-official @jade-lopez-maximoff @greentraingobrrr @itwasagatha @parasite-the-symbiote @little-fruitloop-cub @over-usedlittlespoon @waywardsou1 @splutter00 @bobcanhandlethevoid @viktorwithhextech @musical-mindcontrol

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

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welcome back 🥹

would you ever write for Rick Grimes?

A little more tenderness.

Paring: Rick Grimes x fem! reader ft. 🪸

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: Thank you lovely! and why not? Might aswell try some new things. Also working on a masterlist!

Genre: Angsty fluff.

Warnings: none

Era: Post Woodbury prison. Early season 4.

Word count: 0.8k

Rick watched Carl closely as he helped him with the pigs out on the prison's front yard. His son seemed different, avoidant, unusually quiet and when the ex-sheriff caught sight of you at a distance, watching the two of them, the pieces started to fall into place.

“Are you gonna tell me what happened,” Rick said, his voice calm but edged with steel, “or do I have to ask her?”

Carl stopped, hesitating. He turned around just enough to glance your way, then looked down again, getting back to work immediately. He shook his head.

“Nothing” the kid muttered.

His dad sighed. “Let’s try that again…without the lie.” he paused “Carl…she’s been your best friend practically since the start, besides…you wouldn’t be out here helping if she wasn’t busy and I’m pretty sure she isn’t.”

It was no secret Rick had distanced himself from his family after fleeing the farm and through the long, unforgiving winter that followed. His tension with Lori took over his ability to make rational decisions when it came to the baby and Carl’s sudden need for independence and likeness to violence, made it hard for him to regain that father-son complicity they used to have. Then Lori died and you walked out of that cellblock with bloody hands, holding the baby he thought would be the embodiment of his best friend’s and ex-wife’s betrayal.

He was on the edge then, teetering, close to losing himself entirely if not already doing so but you pulled him back. You kept him grounded, made sure he didn’t lose his way as a leader with the group but most importantly, as a father. You watched over Carl and Judith like they were your own and even now, with a prison full of people and responsibilities, you held him accountable. Not just for their safety but for their hearts.

The ex-sheriff didn’t realise he’d been staring until Carl’s quiet sigh pulled him back.

“I slipped up,” Carl muttered, eyes fixed on the ground. “And now she hates me”

Rick blinked, thrown “Hates you?”

Carl gave a small, miserable shrug “Pretty sure”

Even with the confession out, Rick could tell something was still stuck in his throat. His son caved under no pressure at all, that’s how he knew it was weighing down on him.

Carl’s voice dropped even lower. “I accidentally called her…mom” he paused and winced at his own words. The silence that followed felt too loud, almost accusatory. “It–It just happened, we were having fun and laughing, and…I don’t know. It’s stupid”

Rick’s face mirrored the one you’d worn when Carl had called you mom. It was far from disgust, nor rejection, just sheer surprise laced with some guilt. You had loved Lori, despite everything. Taking care of her kids had never been about replacing her and for Rick, accepting your help was never supposed to shift the way he saw you but somewhere along the way, his gaze softened, a little more tender now, without meaning to be.

Before he could even answer, the crunch of gravel underfoot broke the silence and there you were. Your smile settled something in his chest, even though he was sure it wasn’t meant for him.

“Morning” you greeted, eyes flicking to Rick for a brief nod before landing on Carl, his followed. “Can I steal him for a second?”

Carl’s eyes silently pleaded with his dad not to agree, but Rick knew this was something the two of you had to work through yourselves. So he nodded, taking the shovel from his son’s hand. “Go”

Carl’s steps were hesitant at first, dragging slightly through the dirt. As he passed you, you ruffled his hair like you often did.

“Nice try. Go inside,” you said gently “I’ll be there in a second”

You both watched him walk off, and only once he was far enough that voices couldn’t carry, you spoke. “He didn’t do anything wrong” you began softly, reassuring his father “He’s been doing his chores, pulling more weight than anyone his age should and hanging out with the other kids… even though he kinda hates it for the first 2 hours–”

“He told me,” Rick cut in with a nod. His voice was low, unreadable. He didn’t know what else to say, or whether he should be apologizing for putting you in that position in the first place. After a pause, he added, “Are you okay?”

“Are you?” you echoed softly.

He nodded, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes “He thinks you hate him”

“He knows I don’t” you shook your head with a faint shrug. “It happens. I don’t have enough fingers to count the many times I called my art teacher ‘mom’ growing up” A small smile tugged at your lips before fading. “It just caught me off guard, that’s all. He’s confused. Things are changing fast and now that this place is starting to feel like a home…”

“He’s looking for the thing that’s missing,” Rick finished quietly.

You nodded.

He sighed, gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again “Yeah” he nodded to himself “I don’t think he’s the only one that’s confused”

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

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Sunshine

Carl Grimes x fem!reader

CW: (established relationship, carl and reader are 20 or in their early 20s, carl lives au, carl is the best big brother/uncle to judith, rj, gracie, coco, and jerrys babies, married life, domesticated life, parenthood, fluff, takes place in late s9 to s10{I've only watched up to 10x12, so sorry for any inaccuracties}, carl is an A+ dad and husband, carl may be ooc, carl cut his hair im sorry)

Word count: 2.2k

Part two of Baby Blues

The sound of childish glee rang in your ears while you walked into the house, the sound of small footsteps and thumps echoing in the apartment.

Walking past the living room, you headed to the kitchen, holding the wicker basket full of vegetables and fruits from the garden. Setting it on the counter with a soft thud, you glanced over your shoulder at the four in the living room.

Carl crawled on the floor, chasing Judith, RJ, and Gracie. The three kids laughed with pure joy while Carl's arms tried to sweep their feet from under them.

Flicking the faucet on, you rinsed the strawberries and blueberries off, blunt nail picking small flecks of dirt from the colorful skin. After rinsing and patting the small fruits dry with a wash cloth, your fingers wrapped around the handle of the small paring knife, making shallow cuts around the stems of the strawberries. Digging the stems and small pits out, you set the berries on the ceramic plate.

Quietly, you walked out of the kitchen and to the living room, leaning against the door frame, watching Carl's fingers attack RJ’s tummy while the little boy laughed loudly. Gracie and Judith were prying at Carl's arms, making playful protests while the young man attacked their friend(and baby brother) with tickles.

Judith's attempts were much more half-assed, she was starting on the rise of being “too old” to play kid games. Gracie was a lot more intense, the little blonde girl pulling with all of her might.

“You guys can't save him now!” Carl exclaimed, looking over at Judith and then Gracie, pale fingers dancing over the young boy's sides.

“S-save me!” RJ cried between belts of laughter, looking at his big sister for help from their big brother, “J-Judith! Please!”

Gracie caught a glimpse of you, calling out your name, “Help us save RJ!”

Carl's fingers paused, glancing over at you, his blue eye landing on your little amused smile. He still had that little look of joy in his eye, straightening up a tiny bit and deciding to relent his tickles.

Carl's brown hair was cut shorter now, less boyish, stubble neatly trimmed, jawline a bit more defined. The eye patch that covered his eye was still one of gauze, containing the scar that he would sometimes show the kids of Alexandria to freak them out.

A small silver band wrapped around his left ring finger, matching the one that adorned yours, but lacking the small gem resting atop of the ring.

“Hey.” Carl greeted, a little breathless from laughing and playing.

“Hello.” You hummed, pushing off of the door jamb, and looking over at the kids. “I got a snack ready in the kitchen.”

Gracie and Judith took off, RJ scrambling from the floor and chasing behind. It was quiet in the living room now, Carl leaning back against the bottom of the couch, staring up at you.

Your footfall met Carl's ears, along with the little conversations from the three in the kitchen. Standing next to him, Carl leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to your hip in greeting.

“What'd you get for them?” Carl mumbled, looking up at you with the most sick expression.

“Berries. Saw Negan out there.” You informed, watching him pout a little.

“He didn't hurt you, right?” Carl worried, tugging you closer, a hardened look forming on his face.

“Of course he didn't.” You huffed, running your fingers through his hair, fingers getting stuck in the occasional little knot which made Carl hiss lightly in pain.

You sat on the ground, watching Negan pick the tomatoes and set them in a basket beside him.

“So you haven't told the kid yet?” Negan hummed, looking over at you with that familiar look you had grown used to over the years you've been by his side.

“‘m nervous.” You whispered, playing with a blade of grass, “What if he's…I dunno. Upset? What if he's not ready–”

“Sweetheart, look at ‘im.” Negan nodded over to Carl who was walking along with Siddiq, holding Coco and cooing over the little infant. “I don't think he'll be mad. I mean, it is his. Right?”

“Of course it is!” You tore your eyes away from Carl and Coco to give Negan a glare of offense, offended that he'd even think that.

“Then why be so worried? He obviously loves these damned kids runnin’ around. He's practically been raisin’ Judith since she was a baby.” Negan shrugged, remembering how you used to gush about Carl when you were younger, and he was first stuck in the cell. That was one of things you told him about.

God. That little crush used to be the cutest thing to Negan.

“True. But–”

Negan cut you off. Again.

“But what? You're gonna have to tell him. Whether you start to show, or lose the baby. You're his wife. You two should be comfortable enough to talk about that stuff. You guys have to be.” Negan sighed, wiping the dirt off on his jeans.

You looked up at him while he stood up, his hand falling to rest on your head

“Plus, ‘m sure almost everyone here will have your back if he's upset about it.” Negan smiled, before walking off towards his next chore.

You watched as Carl's fingers worked on the little paper stars. The two of you sat at the dinner table, the old craft book laying open next to the pile of map strips you cut up for Carl.

“Can you grab me a glass of water, my beautiful wife?” Carl looked up, a tiny grin pulling on the edge of his lips.

“Of course. Anything for my handsome husband.” You joked back, standing up and walking over to the counter.

Carl watched with love in his eye, admiring your beautiful form that he grew to know. The way you poured the water from the jug into the glass was honestly fucking sexy as hell.

At least to Carl.

You walked back with the cup, holding it out to him while you sat back down next to him. Carl gave you a small nod in thanks while he sipped on the water, going back to the little origami stars.

Carl had been dead set on making these stars into little bracelets for the kids around Alexandria, and maybe some for Jerry's kids if he had enough left over. Who's he kidding? He'll absolutely make enough on purpose.

“Carl, um, we can tell eachother anythin', right?” You played with one of the little stars, looking up from it at him.

“Of course. What's wrong?” Carl asked, setting the newly folded star into the bowl of the paper trinkets.

You could feel the blood rushing in your ears, heart rattling against your ribcage, breaths short and curt.

“I'm pregnant.” You blurted, staring into his baby blue, searching for any reaction.

Carl's jaw dropped a little, eye widening, brow flying up.

“...are you serious?” Carl gaped, eye glancing down at your tummy before back up at your face, immediately frowning when he saw the tears in your eyes.

“Hey, what's wrong?” His pale hands flew up to your face, gently cupping your cheeks while his thumbs rubbed the fallen tears away.

His hands were always a little calloused.

“Are you mad?” You whispered, terrified for his answer.

Carl felt his heart break. But he also felt a little offended that you'd think he would be upset. You were finally having his kid for god's sake. He's wanted this for so long.

“Of course I'm not. I'm so excited–” Carl paused, looking to the side for a second, before looking back at you, “You want this, right?”

Seeing your nod made Carl's heart skip a beat, a smile dancing its way across his lips. He pulled you against his chest, rubbing his cheek on the top of your head.

Pulling away, Carl smiled brightly, pressing a kiss on your lips. “We're gonna be parents. Oh my god. Judith is gonna be an aunt, RJ will be an uncle. Michonne will pretty much be a grandma.”

Carl walked next to you, holding the small infant in his arms, little five month old cooing and marveling. The two– the three of you walked outside, around Alexandria, Carl pointing things out to the baby.

“That's a water wheel, and that's a pond. And that's where daddy got into a fight with a boy when he was younger.” Carl whispered, angling the baby so she could see everything he was talking about.

The little girl happily cooed, not knowing that she was supposed to be looking at anything. She was just happy to be a part of the conversation.

“I don't think she's looking.” You hummed softly, pinching the infant's little socked foot.

“Yeah. Probably not.” Carl nodded, looking over at you with a small smile. “But I can just pretend that she is.”

A soft laugh left your lips, amusement and adoration in your eyes while you watched Carl gently bounce your daughter in his arms.

“Look at you. Daddy Carl.”

Daryl's drawl rang out, a small, fond smirk on his lips while he stared at you three. His eyes held a look of admiration and nostalgia. All he could think of was when you two were a couple of thirteen year olds trying to navigate some puppy love.

“Yeah yeah.” Carl scoffed a little, kissing the top of his little girl's head, a fluffy tuft of dark hair on her head.

She had taken after Carl, his genes somehow completely dominating yours. She had those same baby blues and fluffy dark hair. She was the cutest little thing. Ever. Wearing a pink onesie, little blue socks on her tiny feet.

“Daryl's just jealous ‘cause I have the cutest little daughter.” Carl mumbled under his breath, rolling his eye a little, before blowing a raspberry against the infant's chubby cheek.

She let out a happy squeal, kicking her little legs in delight. Carl smirked a little, before putting on his tough, gruff front when an Alexandrian rushed over, getting Carl's attention about a loose support beam on the wall.

“To mommy you go.” Carl hummed to the baby in his arms, gently handing her over to you. His eye looked over at the man, clearing his throat and putting on a more authority level tone, “Show me.”

You, Darly, and your daughter watched as Carl walked away with the man.

“There he goes again. Daddy's a busy man.” You cooed at your daughter, watching as her eyes stared up at yours.

Her eyes looked exactly like Carl's, they held the same awe and love that you remember Carl staring at you with for the first time. After the Prison was blown, after Terminus, you thought you lost Carl. You thought you lost everyone.

You remembered it. Very vividly. The pure relief on Carl's sweet young features will forever be etched in your head. His eyes lightened when he saw you stumble out from the woods, in front of the group. He wanted nothing more than to tackle you and promise everything would be okay.

You laid on the bed, watching Carl shed his shirt and jeans. He climbed into bed with you, collapsing on his tummy with a low sigh of relief. His muscle definition had grown a bit more defined over the years, but he still had all of those sweet freckles you loved.

“Ugh…that damned wall. Got almost all of my fingers with the goddamned hammer.” Carl mumbled, tilting his head to the side and staring at you.

“Tired?” You hummed, dragging your fingers through his short locks, smiling when you saw his scar where his right eye used to be.

He really was the most handsome guy in the world.

“Unbelievably so.” Carl groaned, rolling onto his side, icy eye dancing over your face. “C’mere…”

Carl smiled softly, opening his arms for you. Open for cuddles as always. Your chest pressed against his, a leg tossed over his hip, his arms circling you.

“I love you. So damn much.” Carl murmured, his nose brushing against your, forehead against yours.

“I love you too. I love our family.” You whispered, pressing a soft chaste kiss on his lips. You never minded the slight chap they always seemed to hold.

The calm silence was broken by a small whimper and cry from your daughter in her room. Carl pecked your lips, slowly pulling away and sitting up.

“I’ll check up on her. You stay here and get comfortable.” Carl smiled softly, standing up and limping out of the bedroom.

Fingers dancing over the spot Carl once laid, a smile forced its way on your face when you heard him talking to the infant. His voice soft and gentle, a contrast to the tone that he used when directing around Alexandria.

Rolling over, you stared up at the ceiling, listening to Carl softly hum a very familiar tune. A tune you remembered hearing Lori hum to him at the prison.

“You are my sunshine…my only sunshine.”

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

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Just Steve: Part One- Prologue

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A/n: So.... This is my second time writing and the last time I wrote was 10 years ago. Please welcome my new obsession: Just Steve.

Paring: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Steve Kemp

Warnings: Avengers Endgame Spoilers!!!, mentions of cannibalism if you squint

Pov: 3rd Person Limited

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It was a windy mid-October day in Brooklyn, New York. A perfect day to be spending walking in Central Park. Or- in Steve Kemp's way- moving into a new house. The cannibal had moved to avoid the cops and have a fresh start. New city, new targets, new meat. That's what this was supposed to be about, right?

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Steve Rogers however, was doing exactly what was mentioned before- walking in Central Park. The super-soldier had recently given up the shield and his mantle as Captain America in hopes for a peaceful life. He had been given a chance to go back to the past and live his life out with Peggy. However, he remembered Peggy saying she lived a good life without him and decided not to screw with time. Now, the blonde's focus was on trying to find a new purpose in his life.

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Reader sighed. She hated her job as a insurance agent. She would rather be outside on this gorgeous day instead of stuck in her cramped, musty smelling office. Three more hours until she would be free from torture. Suddenly, the office fills with a melodic sound, making Reader jump. Reader grabbed her phone, smiling to herself. She had recently signed up for a dating app and she had just matched with a guy named Steve. Steve told her to meet him at a bar called Clover Club at 9 p.m. that night. Reader sent a reply before putting her phone down, smiling. Her day just got a little bit brighter.

"Ms. Y/L/N, Mr. Harper's on the phone." Your assistant, Riley, informs you while poking her head into your office. "He's asking if you're available for that meeting tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's fine, Riley. Thanks."

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That night, at Clover's Club, there are two men and one woman who are about to have their lives' changed forever. Steve Kemp, Steve Rogers, and Y/N Y/L/N.

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next chapter coming soon

Tag List: @steverogers-cap @stevekemp-official @crashingout2point0 @blac-ivy

Let me know if you want to be on the tag list.

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

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they reunited i can now die in peace🕯️🙏🥳

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

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cocky rick x girly reader who literally just eats it up? likeeeeee yes he’s aware that she watches him all the time and is like amazed by anything he does cuz he just looks damn good doing it and god forbid a girl indulge? he knows he’s the shit and she doesn’t mind letting him knowwww (little does she know he feels the same way abt her🥹)

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Sheriff

⌇rick grimes x girly!reader

⌇summary: you watch rick like it’s your full time job, he doesn’t mind at all

⌇warnings: suggestive…

⌇word count: 1.9k

a/n SAVE A HORSE RIDE A COWBOY HERE I COME RICK (i hope this is what you had in mind anon i loved writing this!!)

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❀ ⋆｡˚ ˚｡⋆❀

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Rick Grimes had no right looking THAT good elbow deep in a vegetable patch.

It was a perfect Alexandria afternoon, not because of the blue sky or the cicadas hummin. No, it was the sun beating down just enough to get a little sweat going on him. And there he was, kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing as he pressed tomato plants into the soil. His curls were damp, clinging to his forehead, and every now and then, he’d stop to swipe at the sweat with the back of his hand, mouth set in that same serious line like this was the most important thing in the world.

And you?

You were perched right there on your porch swing, sundress flowing, legs crossed pretty, unapologetically staring.

Because God forbid a girl indulge.

He knew it too. Every so often, he’d shift just so, leaning into the stretch, rolling his broad shoulders back, giving you the perfect view. Like he was saying, Go on. Take a good look.

And oh, you were.

Truth be told, this wasn’t the first time he’d done it.

Your mind wandered, unprompted, to all the other times Rick had caught you lookin’.

Like last week, when he’d been fixing the gate, shirt riding up just enough to show off that stupid, unfair slice of toned stomach. You’d passed by, innocent as could be, and offered him a sweet little “Need any help Sheriff?”

And he’d smirked, leaned back with his arms crossed, blatantly flexing. “You know how to handle a wrench darlin’?”

Didn’t even give you a chance to answer before adding, “Course you do. Got a feelin’ you’re real good with your hands.”

You’d damn near combusted.

Or two days ago, when he’d caught you eyeing his holster as he geared up for patrol. You weren’t even trying to be subtle. Something about the way that leather hugged his hips had your brain absolutely useless.

Rick had noticed. Oh, he’d noticed.

“Careful now,” he’d drawled, leaning in just enough to make your heart stutter, “keep lookin’ at me like that, you’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

And you, shameless, had batted your lashes right back.

“Maybe I like trouble.”

The grin he’d given you? Smug. Cocky..

So now, watching him play house with his precious tomatoes, it was no surprise that he was well aware of your attention.

“You appear to be observing Rick with what I’d categorize as unrestrained admiration.”

The sudden voice nearly made you jump out of your skin.

“Jesus Eugene!” you laughed, hand to your chest. “Where’d you come from?”

“I was merely conducting perimeter checks for wildlife breaches,” he said, shifting awkwardly on his feet, oblivious to how loud he was. “However, it would seem your surveillance efforts are of a more… hormonal variety.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“You’re staring,” he clarified. “Quite blatantly, I might add. To what do you attribute this persistent fascination? Is it his facial symmetry? His leadership qualities? Or perhaps the primitive appeal of physical labor?”

You stared at him, mouth twitching.

“Eugene,” you said sweetly, “just look at him.”

Eugene squinted. “While I acknowledge his practical skillset, I fail to perceive the aesthetic allure. But then again, I am not a female, nor am I predisposed to such reactions.”

You couldn’t help it. The laugh bubbled up before you could stop it.

“You ever heard that saying?” you grinned, eyes sparkling. “Save a horse, ride a cowboy?”

Eugene looked genuinely perplexed. “I am unfamiliar with that idiom. Is this a transportation alternative or a sexual innuendo?”

You nearly wheezed.

But just as you doubled over in laughter, hand over your mouth, you caught it, a shadow shifting, a certain weight of a gaze. Slowly, you glanced sideways.

And there he was.

Rick, standing, one hand on his hip, the other dragging sweat from his brow. His lips quirked, just a little, catching you red handed.

Your laugh died immediately.

“Oh—hi Rick.” You cleared your throat, sitting up straight, suddenly very interested in adjusting the hem of your dress. “Nice… dirt. Looks good.”

Smooth. So smooth.

Rick didn’t say anything, but the way his lips twitched said plenty. He went back to work without missing a beat, smug as anything.

Eugene, blissfully unaware of your humiliation, just nodded. “I shall leave you to your continued voyeurism,” he announced, and shuffled off toward the gate.

You sank back against the swing with a groan.

A few hours passed.

You’d busied yourself with odds and ends, anything to distract from how flustered you’d gotten over a damn man planting tomatoes. But when you wandered back outside, curiosity tugging you like a string, you weren’t surprised to see him still there.

Still working.

Still looking unfairly good doing it.

Only this time, you came prepared.

You padded across the yard, water bottle in hand, sundress swishing at your knees. His back was to you, and you took a moment to appreciate the view. The broad set of his shoulders, the way his jeans hung low on his hips, dusty boots planted firm in the dirt.

“You’re gonna wear yourself out sheriff.”

His head lifted, but he didn’t turn.

“I’m fine.”

“I know you are.” You grinned, offering the water. “But even fine cowboys need a break.”

That made him turn.

He took the bottle from you, fingers grazing yours , hot, rough, deliberate. His eyes dragged down your figure, slow and lingering, before meeting your gaze again with that infuriating little smirk.

“Been watchin’ me all day, haven’t you?”

No point denying it now.

“Maybe.” You tilted your head, lip gloss catching the sunlight. “Can you blame me?”

He chuckled, low and warm, unscrewing the bottle cap.

“Ain’t complainin’.” He took a long drink, throat bobbing, making a show of it. “Just curious how long you’re gonna look before you do somethin’ ‘bout it.”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped closer, heat rolling off him, smelling like earth and sweat and soap. His free hand lifted slow, giving you every chance to stop him, and brushed a stray hair from your cheek, fingers lingering just like before.

“I don’t mind givin’ you somethin’ to look at darlin’,” he said, voice soft. “But you oughta know, I been lookin’ right back.”

You swallowed. “You have, huh?”

He hummed, tipping the bottle to you in a mock toast. “Ain’t no crime to look.”

You smiled, heart racing.

“Well then, Sheriff,” you said, stepping just a little closer, “guess we’re both guilty.”

And the way his eyes darkened, the way his jaw flexed like he was holding himself back, you knew this little game wasn’t gonna stay innocent much longer.

But for now?

For now, you let him go back to his tomatoes, smug.

And you? You sat yourself right back on that porch swing.

Watching.

Indulging.

Like the little troublemaker you were.

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

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THIS is the power of commenting on a fic, even if it hasn’t been completed or updated.

i left the first comment after i read the whole thing without breathing.

i kept thinking about it. so i left a second, genuine, thirsty ass comment.

and look what they said.

bet your ass i’m re reading and leaving a long ass comment on every chapter.

❗️fanfics are “free,” but they’re not *free*❗️

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

Video

He should be mine this isn't fair

Andrew Lincoln singing a Goodbye Song to Chandler Riggs

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blac-ivy · 2 months ago

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*screaming*

This is so cute😭😭💞

I WANT AN INNOCENT LOVE

.☘︎ ݁˖

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alexandria! rick grimes x fawn! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: you’re a new addition to alexandria. Rick’s just looking out for his group. That’s the only reason he finds himself drawn to you. Nothing else.

cw: LEGAL age gap (it is big, i imagine reader in her early 20s) canon typical depictions of violence, Rick is kinda mean to reader at first, Rick kind of struggles with the age gap a little, dom! Rick, slight possessive rick

tags/tropes: shy and skittish reader, she’s not used to dealing with people but she’s not helpless, honestly she’s just a sweet and soft person who became what everyone becomes in the apocalypse, hurt/comfort, insecurity, touch-starved reader a bit, YEARNING, no saviors or whisperers just Rick and everyone living happily in alexandria. Daryl is also here and he’s kind of like ur uncle bc i love daryl and i say so

a/n: i have nothing to say other than this is so insanely self indulgent it’s not even funny. nobody asked for this but writing it has kept me sane while i’m couch ridden. everything is terrible rn but rick grimes <3333

songs i listened to while writing: We'll Never Have Sex by Leith Ross, Work Song by Hozier (Rick's theme song) you were mine by Esha Tewari, Do I Wanna Know- Hozier's Cover, Somethin' Stupid by Nancy & Frank Cinatra, Lover, You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (i'm so not normal about that entire album) Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers, Little Bit by Lykke Li (the original not the remix)

title taken from Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers

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₊ ⊹❀

You were just a little thing when you showed up at the gates.

All wide-eyed and skittish at the tree-line, clothes hanging awkwardly off your frame. Scuffed and dirty, when Rick goes up to the tower to scout you out.

You don’t quite come close enough for anyone to get any kind of information on you. Name, age, where you’ve been, what you’re doing at the gates.

These are all questions Rick, as leader, needs answers to.

If he could just convince you to get close enough.

Under different circumstances, he’d just let you do whatever it is you’re planning on doing, but the lurking is starting to make people uneasy. And he figured he ought to do something to ease their concerns. Easiest way is to either get you inside the walls or find answers to those questions.

You’re real good at staying out of reach, though. And you never stay in one place for long. By the time two weeks have gone by, you’ve made it around the entire length of the walls. Just to end up right where you started: the gates.

It’s just past the crack of dawn- dew is still lingering on the plants and grass and the sun’s rays have yet to actually provide warmth. Rick is up, making his rounds and checking in when one of the guards on rotation lets him know that you’re at the gates. Only time you’ve ever been that close.

So they’re opened, and you amble in— light-footed and unsure. Honestly, you remind him a bit of Daryl with your obvious hesitance to be in the company of other people and clear inclination towards nature. But where Daryl is hard edges and reclusiveness, you’re… softer.

A small group of people —curious onlookers, mostly— forms behind Rick as he saunters towards you, and he watches the moment you see the reality of your decision and begin to regret it.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from you, letting the silence hang in the air for a bit.

He finally takes you in with his own two eyes, without the aid of the binoculars, and he examines. Catalogs the nervous twitch of your hands and scuffs and scrapes he can see on the visible scraps of skin. Eyes the way you worry your lip between your teeth and can’t decide if you’re going to keep staring at him or look away- your mind clearly torn between vigilance and submission.

“You finish your tour of Alexandria?” He asks dryly.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Are you the leader of this safe-zone?”

He nods. “Sure am.”

You begin fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly. The small motion draws his attention back to your hands, where me notices bandaids practically covering the entire surface of your skin. He files the information away in his head for later.

“Are you currently accepting new members?”

He can’t help but crack a smile at your question. The way you phrase it and your nervous demeanor remind him so much of the times before the dead started walking— you look like a college student looking for a job, not somebody trying to find refuge here, after the end of the world.

“Depends,” He rests his hands on his hips, and he notes the way your eyes dart to the gun at his side before back up to him, “You got any skills to offer? You alone? Or do you got a group waitin’ for you?”

Your lip is raw from where you release it from your teeth.

“I’m really good at mending. I’m a proficient hunter. I can hold my own in a fight. And I’m alone.”

At the admittance of your lack of company, you shift back a few steps, a subtle re-distribution of weight.

Ain’t been socialized a whole bunch, Rick thinks to himself. He’s willing to bet you either don’t have a lot of positive experiences with large groups of people or you just plain ain’t been around em’ much.

He hums. “You killed anybody?”

“Walkers or live?”

“Either.”

You shift your shoulders. He’s starting to wonder just how many nervous actions you have.

“I don’t think anybody lives alone who hasn’t killed walkers.”

“And the living?”

You don’t move, but your eyes look to the ground, not at him.

Shame. Fear.

“Twice.”

“How come?”

“They wanted my supplies. Wanted me dead. I decided I didn’t want to die.”

He looks you over again. You really are a cute little thing. He thinks, absentmindedly in the back of his head, that something like you shouldn’t have bloody, bandaid covered hands. Shouldn’t have a kill count.

But he dismisses the thought. The end of the world leaves no room for those unwilling to do what’s necessary.

He dips his head. “We’ll get you settled in,” He jerks his head to the some of the guys behind him. “They’ll get you sorted out. Get along, now.”

You slink past him, distance carefully measured as you go.

Your eyes don’t quite leave him, though. There’s a moment- either you pause or his mind slows. Maybe a bit of both. But the air stills, and your gaze locks on him for the first time since he saw you, nestled in that tree line. The memory is clear and vivid- the sun shining through the trees, dappling you in shades of amber and grey. And then he’s here, and you’re looking up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and the sun has risen just enough that it casts a similar glow, the only difference now he can see up close just how the light catches on your face, just how he knows your features would look so different, so much softer if you were cleaned, if someone minded the cuts and scrapes.

And then you step away, and he snaps out of his reverie. He blinks a few times at your retreating form, shakes his head, and then busy’s himself with other work. There’s always something to be done.

But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get the image of you gazing up at him, bathed in the early morning sun out of his mind.

—

A few days pass, and Rick sees little of you. He’s almost positive it’s on purpose. The few times he does see you, you look scared. And then, generally, you manage to make some sort of fleet-footed escape. The repeated spotting and fleeing reminds him of the time he accompanied Daryl on a hunt and startled a doe.

He can’t quite figure out why you’re afraid of him, though. He remembers being fairly decent to you when you arrived, and tried coaxing you towards the gates politely before you’d shown up on your own.

The sight of your scared expression ends up stuck fast in his head, usually super-imposed over the image of you on that morning at the gates. Two different versions of you, neither making any sort of sense.

He decides that it’s probably best that he stick away, if he scares you. You’ll settle, your ruffled feathers’ll smooth.

And he’ll stop thinking about you.

—

Neither do you settle or does he stop thinking about you.

He watches you from a distance, careful. You just… don’t relax. Ever. You creep away from every possible opportunity to connect with others like it might grow jaws and bite- you shrink back or freeze. Like you think if you play dead, if you don’t move, they’ll leave you alone.

He’s wondering what you hoped to accomplish by seeking refuge in Alexandria if this is how you act. You’re going to have a bad go of things if this is your plan. Or maybe you plain haven’t even thought that far.

He snags Daryl’s arm as he passes by.

“Wha—“

“The new girl,” Is all Rick says, still watching you remarkably avoid everyone who passes you. “She’s real skittish.”

Daryl follows his eyeline, finding you easy enough.

“Mm. She ain’t settlin’?”

“No.”

Daryl just hums again. “Well, she ain’t got nobody, does she?”

“So?”

The hunter shrugs. “Can’t relax. Ain’t got nobody to watch her back, take a watch. She’ll settle. Might take her a bit of time.”

Rick huffs. “She’s afraid of me.”

“No she ain’t,” Daryl snorts, “And since when does Rick Grimes care whether other people like him well enough?”

Rick doesn’t respond, just keeps watching you.

Daryl follows Rick’s gaze, then breathes out a low sigh.

“She is a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

“That is not what this is about.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Sure it’s not.“

“She’s half my age. I could damn well be her father.”

“But ya ain’t.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is the point, Rick?” Daryl sighs again, crossing his arms. “Either do something about it or move on. You got too many people dependin’ on ya for you to be eyeing up flighty young girls.”

Rick rolls his shoulders. “You make me out to be such a creep.”

The other man claps him on the shoulder. “Then stop acting like one.”

He attempts to take Daryl’s advice to heart. It’s an annoying truth that Daryl always knows exactly what Rick needs to hear. Not necessarily what he wants to hear, but what needs to be said.

And he is being creepy. He shakes his head as he walks away. Watching you, thinking about you. He can’t. That’s— you’re too young to be thinking any kind of thing like that.

No matter how there’s this half second, before you look scared, where you almost look relieved. No matter how he wants to personally take care of the bumps and scrapes on your face, wants to take off the bandaids and examine what’s beneath them.

Daryl was right. He needs to focus. Carl, Judith, everyone- they need him.

You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

—

You’ve gone missing.

Rick has been doing his best to heed Daryl’s advice— he stopped looking for you in the crowds, stopped trying to figure you out, stopped watching you from afar. He even made a fairly decent attempt to stop thinking about you. Not that the effort proves especially fruitful, but he tried, damnit.

All of those efforts go straight out the window when Daryl tells him that no one’s seen you since yesterday.

It takes him two seconds to grab his gun and follow Daryl out the door.

He barely remembers to tell Carl where he’s going, which scares him, because he doesn’t quite understand what’s been so invasive to his mind and day-to-day activities about you. Your eyes, the soft curve of your cheek, how you might feel in his hands.

They cloud his judgment. Make him do stupid reckless things like search Alexandria high and low for any sign of you.

He doesn’t find any. He searches the place you’re staying— nothing. Only sign of life is the unmade bed and bandaid wrappers in the trashcan by the bed.

He sighs deep and low as he stands over your bed. “Think she had enough? High-tailed it?”

Daryl leans against the doorway. “Nah. She likes it here well enough. She ain’t stupid enough to leave a good thing like this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to her?”

Daryl shrugs. “Few times. She don’t like talkin’ too much, but I think she figures her and I similar.”

“She wrong?”

He scratches his beard. “A little. She fears situations and people the way a prey animal does. S’ why she’s a runner.”

Rick mulls Daryl’s words over as they scan the rest of the place but, of course, find nothing. There are no signs that you, specifically, live here. Nothing personal. Just the unmade bed and the bandaid wrappers in the trashcan.

The pair of them turn the entirety of Alexandria over in a matter of hours. He’s just about to call it quits, either wait for you to come back or send out a search in the morning when Daryl comes back over, telling him you’re at the gates.

As in, outside of them.

Opposite of how things went when you first showed up at the gates, people clear a path as he stalks towards you. They give the pair of you a nice, wide bubble. Even Daryl stays a few feet behind him.

The first thing he notices is that you’re covered in blood. From the way you’re holding yourself, most of it isn’t your own. There’s a backpack slung over your shoulder, but it’s not your usual one.

You won’t meet his eyes.

He stops an arms length away from you. “Where the hell were you?”

You shift backwards, away from him ever so slightly. “Scavenging.”

“Mhm, interestin’,” He says, rubbing his jaw, “Because the last scavenging party was yesterday. And you came back with everybody, so I’ll ask again. Where were you.”

Your eyes flick up from the ground for a moment, eying the people that have gathered to stare. He watches you mentally count them all, then attempt to put more distance between yourself and everybody else. Emphasis on attempt, because the second you take a step back, you stumble, wincing before righting yourself and going right back to scanning the crowd.

He works his jaw, anger and annoyance simmering just under the surface of his skin. He’s not going to get anything out of you here.

He grabs your wrist and turns, set in the direction of the medics.

He drags you along behind him, ignoring the little huffs or sharp intakes of pain when you walk a little too hard or too fast on your bad ankle.

You trip a few times as you go, and when you almost take Rick down with you, he sighs, pausing and turning.

The expression you give him is full of fear. He realizes, in the moment, that you might not remember where the medics are, so as far as you know, he’s angry at you and dragging you to a secluded area.

Guilt strikes him hard and fast, right in his chest.

Damn.

It’s too early to feel guilty about the random girl he allowed into Alexandria. Frightened eyes and shy nature aside.

He shakes his head once. “We’re going to see a doctor. Here, put your arm around me.”

He has to lower himself a little for you to drape your arm across the back of his neck. Your fingertips brush his shoulder, and he can feel the way you’re shaking.

It’s slow going from then on, with Rick acting as your crutches.

“Where were you? And don’t bullshit me.”

“Scavenging.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” You nudge the backpack still strapped to your back. “I was… looking for something. I can’t look for it with the others.”

“What the hell is it that you can’t look for it with the others?”

“A body.”

Your response hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

“…Family or friend?”

“Friend. Haven’t found her yet.”

Something clicks into place in his mental file about you. He feels like he just gained a new piece of the puzzle.

He readjusts your weight over his shoulder, tucking you a little closer and steadfastly pretending he doesn’t hear the little gasp you let out at the contact. Whether it was from pain or surprise, he can’t let himself think about it.

“Don’t go out by yourself. If you need to look, take Daryl with you.”

You sag a bit into him. “Okay.”

He glances down at you from the corner of his eye. You’re… pliant. You’d agreed quickly, and showed absolutely no fight or unwillingness when he, admittedly, manhandled you. You’d followed dutifully behind him and then simply allowed him to position your arms the way he wanted them.

There’s another little parasite that burrows into his brain right there. Right as he’s got you in his grip.

He slows to a stop, a little question forming in his head. He slips the arm that had been wrapped around your waist away, instead curls his fingers across your chin and jaw. He tilts your head up, looks down at your face, searching it for… something.

He meets no resistance. You only stare up at him, doe eyes blinking. He tilts your head to the left, then to right, and still, nothing.

Huh.

He lets go, and you shudder, a full body shiver. And he thinks, in this moment, that he could do whatever he wanted, and you might let him. He could break you, like this.

It’s a very dangerous thing, he decides. Because he doesn’t want to break you. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants to peel back the bandaids and see what’s under them. He wants to scrub the dirt from your face and give you soft clothes —his clothes— not those tattered rags that hang off your body.

You might let him do whatever he wants, but you’re the one who holds this power over him. You’re the one who made him sick— filled his head and clouded his judgement and made him the kind of man he never used to be.

But he can’t say any of that. Can’t even act on it. Not with someone young enough to be his daughter. He has a daughter for Christ’s sake. And a son.

So he just wraps his arm back around your waist and helps you to the medics.

—

“Rick,” Daryl says one afternoon, leaned on the post on the porch, “You’re drivin’ me crazy, here.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help with that.”

“The fawn.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The fawn?”

“You know. That nervous little thing you keep pretendin’ you don’t want in your bed.”

“Daryl.”

The man just keeps fiddling with his crossbow. “What?”

“I can’t just— she’s half my age.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I got kids to think about, and—“

“Carl don’t give a shit and Judith is ten. Only thing she’s concerned about is sneakin’ sweets.”

He entertains the notion in his head, thinks about what pursuing you might be like.

Something occurs to him.

“She ever get close to you?”

“No,” Daryl huffs, always knowing exactly what Rick means, “Keeps about an arm’s distance away. No matter what. She’s been inchin’ closer recently, but not by much.”

His hand on your face, moving it this way and that without any resistance at all, your body pliant in his grip—

“Hm,” Is all Rick says, crossing his arms.

“Why fawn?”

Daryl shrugs. “Looks like one. Kinda acts like one, around you.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Yes, she does. And based on the way you’ve been actin’, you like it.”

He opens his mouth to refute the point because no, he doesn’t like it, he just constantly thinks about how far he could take it, what you would let him do, if he could make you his.

And then he thinks ‘oh.’ Maybe he does like it.

He drops his hands to his hips. “What exactly am I supposed to do, then?”

“I don’t know. Ain’t my area of expertise.”

“You’re the one who knows her better, said I was drivin’ you crazy.”

“So? I don’t know jack shit about romance, Rick.”

“Well, you keep calling her a fawn. How different can it be?”

Very different, his mind supplies. You know that.

Now it’s Daryl’s turn to sigh. “Don’t overwhelm her. She’s a nervous little thing, but she likes you. Once she figures out you ain’t gonna hurt her, she’ll latch on.”

“That’s specific. You deal with fawns a lot?”

He snorts. “No. I’m fuckin’ guessin’ here.”

The two men fall into silence, Daryl fiddling or cleaning his bow— Rick ain’t paying that much attention to him.

He’s thinking about you. You, you, you. Your eyes and your face and your hands and the figure you carefully keep hidden under layers of clothing, even under the hot Virginia sun.

Fawn, he thinks to himself.

Fitting.

—

He doesn’t make a plan or something stupid like that. He just thinks. And then he decides.

“You’re really coming with us?” Glenn asks, pack slung over his shoulder.

“Yep,” Rick says, holstering his gun, “Goin’ stir crazy in there. Just needa get out for a bit.”

You’re quiet as you get your things in order, but the group doesn’t bat an eye. They’re used to your silence, it seems.

You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him, though. You look away every time you think he’s looking at you, but he’s good at looking at you out of the corner of his eye, so he sees it.

Throughout the run, you hover near him, never quite going out of range of his field of vision. He’s impressed by how quietly and efficiently you work- you spot things even he wouldn’t have. All the while watching for walkers, and of course, subtly eyeing Rick.

Despite being the leader, he heads up the back and watches for stragglers. He didn’t really come out cause he was stir-crazy, anyway.

He came out for you. He wanted to watch you work, wanted to do it with you.

To your credit, you work well with the others. You’re a woman of few words with them, but you help where you can and stay civil. Even if you don’t quite get close to any of them.

Except Rick.

As they’re scavenging an abandoned house, a few walkers shuffle out from the trees. Not enough to be a problem— the group outnumbers them easy. But you’re all busy getting supplies and he’s trying to keep an eye out, so he takes them out, one by one.

It really isn’t a huge thing for him, couple walkers ain’t really a big deal, but you notice.

Your eyes are trained on him, clothes now dirty with blood and gore.

He tilts his head, then makes his way over to you.

“You, um,” You say as he gets closer, voice a little hoarse, “Are you alright?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. It’ll take more than a few walkers to take me out.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He snorts a little laugh. “You ain’t too good at this whole conversation thing, huh?”

You flush, looking away. “Sorry. I’m just not… used to having them.”

You look up at him, earnest. “But I’ve been practicing!”

Oh, lord have mercy over his poor soul. You’ve done a full 180– turned from being afraid of him to very obviously wanting his approval.

“That’s good, that’s good. Who you been practicin’ with?”

“Daryl.”

“Now, that ain’t no good.”

You frown, shifting in place. “It’s not?”

“Well, it’s good that you’re tryin’,” He amends, “But Daryl ain’t good for conversation practicin’. He’s a little too much like you. Much too inclined to just sit in silence.”

“Oh.”

You pause, taking your lip between your teeth and mulling something over in your head.

“Would you, um.” You look up at him, clearly nervous.

And he can’t help himself really, from leaning down into your space a bit, a low “Hmm?” humming from his chest.

Your reaction is instant. This close, he can see the exact moment a flush crawls across your face, to even the tips of your ears.

And he’d suspected, you know, based on your behavior with him. But this— cold hard evidence that he makes you nervous. That you want him on you.

It’s cute. Real cute.

You steel yourself against your own nervousness, and he wants to coo at you.

“Would you practice with me?”

He leans back against the post, slides his hands into his pockets. “Course. Ain’t much to it.”

You smile. It’s small, a quiet sort of thing, but it’s there. He made you smile.

You gesture to the house behind you. “I’m. Gonna go back to scavenging. Um. Thanks.”

You turn on your heel, fleeing back into the house. He watches you go, something settling right into place in his chest.

You stick a little closer to him for the rest of the run.

—

After that day, you begin seeking him out. You don’t approach him right away, preferring to to trail behind him for a little bit before finally making a move.

The move being a quiet: “Hi, Rick.”

Today’s no different, other than it being a little later when you do find him. He’s taking a little stroll around, as is his usual. It… settles him, to see everything alright with his own two eyes.

Settles him even more when he hears the quiet patter of your footsteps behind him.

He chuckles. “Afternoon, darlin’.”

Your foot steps speed up, fall into step somewhat beside him. “Hi, Rick.”

“Hi,” He says, smile tugging at his lips. “How was your day?”

You clasp your hands behind your back as you walk. “Good. Weren’t many walkers on today’s run. I got something for Judith.”

“Oh? Let’s see it, then.”

You take something out of your pocket and hold it out to him.

It’s a pocket knife. One of those multi-tool ones.

And it’s pink.

“I know it’s a cliche, the girls knife being pink, and she is only ten, but I saw it and I thought of her, and—“

“It’s perfect,” He interrupts before you can start spiraling. “She’s gonna love it.”

You deflate almost instantly. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure.”

You walk for a few minutes before remembering the point of you coming up to him.

“Um. How was your day?”

He huffs a little, too fond to be upset. “Fairly decent. Ain’t got too much going on now.”

“That’s… good?”

He shrugs. “Just a little borin’. How’s that ankle of yours?”

This is usually how your conversations go. A few easy, back and forth questions. Easing you into talking to people, keeping conversations going. You’ve slowly gotten more confident. You talk a little longer, voice sounds a little more expressive.

“Fine.” You say, a little too quickly.

He narrows his eyes. “Really? No pain at all?”

It’s the looking away that sells it. You never look at him when you’re lying. Can’t stand to.

“No. It’s fine.”

He kicks his foot out a little, the toe of his boot just barely catching your ankle.

It’s a little more effective than he wanted. You let out a little yelp of pain and stumble forward, ankle almost immediately buckling.

He darts forward, catching you under the stomach with one arm.

You hang there a little, arms dangling.

“Fine, huh?” He hefts you up, so you’re back to standing upright, though now, visibly favoring your ankle. “So what’d the doctor tell you when I dropped you off?”

“Rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”

“And which of those four have you been ignorin’?”

“…”

“Hey,” He says, tapping the side of your jaw with two fingers. “Don’t lie to me.”

“All of them,” You wince, “I just didn’t want to be useless. I can walk on it fine. You haven’t even noticed until now!”

Your voice goes a little high at the end, a little desperate.

He thinks about how animals that are lower on the food rung don’t show pain. A deer will break a leg and keep walking until it drops, till it slows too much and something picks it off.

But you ain’t an animal, and nothing’s gonna pick you off.

“That’s true,” He says, “But that don’t make it right. You’re just prolonging the healing process.”

You look down. “…You were mad. I didn’t want to make you more upset by being useless.”

Ah. So that’s what it’s all about.

His approval, once again.

“I’d rather have you useless for a week than useless forever because you didn’t rest properly,” He ignores the hypocrisy of it, the fact that he’s ignored medical advice more times than he can count.

“I really am fine, mostly,” You say meekly, “It’s stopped hurting when I walk. It’s just a little unstable.”

“I still want you taking it easy for a little, you hear me?”

You nod.

“Nah,” He moves, standing in front of you, more than a little in your personal space, “I wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”

It’s a little test of sorts. To see how you’ll respond. What you’ll say. If you’ll listen.

You swallow, eyelashes fluttering. “I hear you. I understand.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Take it easy.”

“That’s right,” You’ve been nice and obedient, so he figures you deserve a little reward. “Good girl.”

He hears your sharp intake of breath, watches your eyes get a little glassy.

Aw, that’s all you wanted. Just wanted to be someone’s good girl.

His good girl.

He nods towards your place. “Get along, now. Do I have to walk you to your door?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ll go. I will. Uh— bye.”

He watches you scamper away, gait a little uneven, hands clenched at your sides.

I can get used to this.

—

It becomes a little thing, after that.

When you’re not busy with your own responsibilities, you’re usually with him. Either right beside him, or trailing a few feet behind. Your company is quiet and calm, like waves from a lake lapping gently at the shore.

You also begin to settle in with the rest of the group. You’re still more inclined to be near Rick or, if he’s not available, Daryl, but once you become comfortable talking with people, Maggie and Glenn are quickly added to your slowly growing roster of safe people.

Judith has loved you ever since she found out that you’re the one who gave her the most beloved pink pocket knife, and enjoys babbling and talking your ear off about nothing the way that ten year olds do.

Carl grows to appreciate your presence too, finding solace in the fact that you don’t feel the need to fill silence with conversation.

You still act different when Rick is around, though. Especially when it’s just the two of you.

With everybody else, you’re subtly but very strictly independent- despite growing close with the group, you still maintain a slight distance with most of them, and prefer doing things yourself, by yourself. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

But when you’re alone, just Rick and you, those hard edges soften, and your little personal bubble pops. He’s steadily growing obsessed with the change.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Having such a cute little thing follow him around, hanging off his words. Most days, it’s all he can do not to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to bed.

And then one day, he does. Kind of.

It must be the middle of the night, but the second he hears the knock at his door, he’s wide awake.

He hushes both Carl and Judith back to bed, then creeps to the front door with his hand on his gun. He has never, in his entire life, been awoken in the middle of the night to good news.

When he opens the door he sees you. And Daryl, but he’s really focused on you. You’ve got tears streaming down your face, you’re wearing a strange combination of sleep clothes and the clothes he’s seen you wear to do runs. Your boots are on, but not tied.

“Wha—“

“Caught her sneaking towards the gates, all shaken up. Figured it’d be wiser to take her here then back to her place.”

Daryl pats your head once. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

Then Daryl’s gone, and you’re standing on Rick’s porch, still crying.

“Alright, come here now.”

He barely manages to get the door closed before you fall into him, face pressed to his chest and hands grasping the front of his shirt.

He hesitates for just a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

“Shh, shh. You’re alright, you’re alright now.”

He presses one hand to the nape of your neck, keeping you tucked close as you crack, just a little bit, nearly silent tears staining his shirt and tremors wracking your body.

Eventually, he guides you over to the couch, situates himself before helping you into a more comfortable position. He wraps your arms around his neck, your legs draped across his lap and the couch.

He keeps one hand pressed to your neck, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

He presses his cheek to the crown of your head, breathing in deep and slow, a curl of satisfaction rising in his chest when you unconsciously mimic his breathing, silent sobs slowing, tremors fading.

Once you’ve calmed down enough, he speaks.

“What’s got you so worked up, huh? What happened sweetheart?”

The pet name slips out of his mouth unbidden, but honestly, he wouldn’t take it back.

“Nightmare,” You sniffle. “Daryl was gone and it was my fault and you hated me.”

“Well, none of that happened now, did it?”

You shake your head.

“No, that’s right. Daryl’s just fine, and I ain’t upset with you. You’re alright.”

You take in a few shaky, shuddering breaths.

He shifts, readjusting and tucking you closer to him. “Now, how come you didn’t come to me? Daryl said you were headin’ to the gates.”

You go a little rigid. “Didn’t think I was allowed. Didn’t want to wake you up for something stupid.”

“Oh, none of that now,” He nudges you away a little, taking your face in his hands. He needs eye-contact while he says this, “You need something, you come to me. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what time it is. You come to me, you understand?”

You nod, lip wobbling a bit. “I understand.”

He thumbs your cheekbone. “Good. Now come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

In the morning, the kids are a little surprised to see your rumpled form at the kitchen table, but both recover fairly quickly. Judith especially, who rejoices at the prospect of someone other than Carl or her father whom she can hold hostage with inane, ten year old questions.

But you never quite shake that haunted look in your eyes. Like there was something else— something more in that nightmare, something that dug its little claws in and stuck fast.

It’s all he can do but pray it doesn’t last.

—

It becomes an unspoken thing that wherever Rick is, you’re nearby. Kind of like a little puppy, following him about and hoping for a treat.

He indulges you, because he can’t really help himself in the face of those eyes.

He also knows it’s the easiest way to get you to smile, which he’s been trying to bring about more, since the nightmare. You’ve shaken that haunted expression for the most part, but every now and then, it’ll come back, if just for a few moments.

You’ve been absent most of the day today, off on a run, and he wishes it didn’t get under his skin so much to not have his favorite girl right there behind him.

You’re his stress relief, and you don’t even know it. Don’t even do anything really, just kind of linger about with your adorable little face and occasionally help with your cute little hands. He’s hopelessly obsessed.

You’re smiling when you get back, bee-lining straight for him.

“Well, well,” He says, resting his hands on his hips, “What do we have here?”

“I got you something,” You say, practically vibrating with excitement, slinging your backpack off and rifling through it.

“Oh, something for me? Can’t wait to see it.”

You pull an honest to god polaroid camera out of your bag.

“You said once that you wished you had pictures of your kids to carry with you, and I found this, and it still works, and it still has film in it. I checked.”

You thrust it out to him, and he extracts it carefully from your hands, holding it with an almost reverence.

A camera. A working film camera.

You shuffle in place, and he realizes he’s been staring at it in silence for more than a few minutes. “…Do you like it?”

“I love it,” He says honestly, voice just a little scratchy, because he doesn’t understand how someone can survive the zombie apocalypse, and still end up so damn kind, and so damn sweet. “I’m so touched, sweetheart.”

You beam up at him. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it. He’s never understood cuteness aggression until this very moment. He just can’t. He wants to squeeze you as hard as he can or just punch a wall or some stupid shit.

God, he’s pushing forty, he needs to get this under control.

“I was really excited when I found it. Tara took a picture of me to test it.”

You pull out a little polaroid picture, film developed, and he takes that with reverence too. In the picture, you’re smiling, that same soft, little smile you do when you’re really happy about something and don’t know how to express it. Your hands show two peace signs, a knife clutched in one.

That’s my girl, he thinks.

“Might just have to keep this,” He says, dumb smile on his face.

“Really?”

“Really. You know, it’s good luck to keep a picture of a pretty girl with you.”

“Pretty?” You squeak, flushing. It’s so easy to make you flustered. He loves it.

“Mhm,” He says, tucking the photo into one of the compartments on his belt, keeping it safe. “Real pretty, I’d say.”

“Oh.” You say, more than a little breathless. “Um.”

Oh, your poor little brain.

“You need a minute?” He snorts.

“Maybe?”

He chuckles, patting the top of your head. “Oh, you’ll be fine. Better get used to it.”

“You’re pretty too,” You blurt, then your eyes widen comically. “No, wait, I meant—“

He laughs, a real, actual laugh. “Me, a grown ass man- pretty. That’s a good one.”

You bury your face in your hands, a tiny little whine escaping your throat.

“Aw, come on, now. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m very flattered you think I’m pretty.”

“S’ not what I meant.” You mumble.

“No?” He says, prying your hands off your face. “What’d you mean, then?”

You look away, unable to meet his eyes.

“You’re… handsome.” You whisper the last part, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Aw, what’d I do to deserve a young thing like you thinking an old man like me is handsome?”

You mumble something again, a little too quiet for him to hear.

“…afe.”

He leans down. “What was that, now?”

“You’re safe.”

Oh.

That’s… not the answer he was expecting.

But he likes it.

Rick is a leader. A protector.

And you need him.

“I make you feel safe?” He hums, resisting the urge to step closer to you because you’re very much out in the open and he knows how you feel about wide open spaces, especially when there’s people in them. He’s torturing you enough as it is. “That why you linger around me, huh?”

Feeling bolder at his interest, you nod.

“You make me feel like… something special. Protected.”

Yes.

He’s always known that he needs to be needed. That he’s the kind of man who requires being a leader, taking care of what’s his, protecting.

To have verbal confirmation that he’s made you feel safe, protected, it’s.

Well it’s a lot more than he can unpack in front of the gates.

“Pretty little thing like you needs protectin’.”

You frown.

“Not because you’re incapable,” He amends, hands raised, “But because I rather like doing it.”

You lean closer, and he follows, heat rising—

“Please, save us all the pain of havin’ to watch, Rick.”

He grins, nose brushing yours, then steps back.

“Maybe stop creepin’ around, Daryl.” He calls to the other man, who just shrugs, ambling on by.

But Daryl does have a point. He doesn’t want an audience. You’re not that kind of girl.

Instead, he reaches down, snakes an arm around your waist and leads you away from the open space, towards his house instead.

“Come on, sweetheart. Think you’d rather be somewhere quiet for what I’m about to do.”

The heat radiating from your body and the shiver he feels under his palm is all the confirmation he needs.

His little fawn, finally his.

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